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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

William  P.  Wreden 


THE   SEVEN  WHO  SLEPT 


THE 
SEVEN  WHO  SLEPT 

BY 

A.   KINGSLEY  PORTER 


BOSTON 

MARSHALL  JONES  COMPANY 
MDCCCCXIX 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 
BY   MARSHALL  JONES  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  U.  B.  A. 
BY  THE  UNIVERSITY  PBESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 


3l 


PREFACE 

IN  the  days  of  the  glory  of  Rome  —  when 
men  were  wont,  just  as  now,  to  throw  their 
shoulders  out  of  joint  by  striving  to  em- 
brace the  universe  —  the  poet  Lucretius 
dreamed  a  dream  saturated  with  the  per- 
fume of  adolescence.  He  imagined  he  could 
free  the  human  race  from  superstition. 
Shocked  at  the  cruelty  of  the  state  religion, 
at  the  waste  and  uselessness  of  worship  to 
imaginary  deities,  at  the  immorality  of  cer- 
tain rites,  at  the  imbecility  of  the  apotheo- 
sized emperors,  he  determined  to  open 
men's  eyes,  to  point  out  to  them  the  truth. 

To-day  Lucretius'  purpose  is  accom- 
plished, albeit  not  by  him  and  through  forces 
he  little  imagined.  The  gods  of  Rome, 
cold  as  any  stone,  are  wrapped  in  a  sempi- 
ternal twilight.  On  this  wide  planet  with 
all  its  extravagant  sects  and  conflicting 
creeds,  with  its  myriad  world-weary,  belief- 
hungry  human  beings,  there  is  no  longer  a 
man  who  believes  in  Jove  or  even  Apollo. 

[  5  ] 


785515 


PREFACE 

The  Olympian  dynasty  that  once  exerted 
through  a  flock  of  birds  or  the  entrails 
of  a  victim  despotic  control  alike  over 
trivial  detail  of  individual  lives  and  over  the 
gravest  decisions  of  national  destiny  has 
passed.  The  earth  has  been  freed  from  a 
great  illusion. 

Fortunate  for  Lucretius  (as,  indeed,  for 
any  one),  that  he  never  saw  the  realization 
of  his  dream !  He  who  had  imagined  a  race 
made  god-like  by  a  great  emancipation, 
would  have  found  —  us,  with  our  unnum- 
bered contradictory  and  irreconcilable  be- 
liefs and  religions;  he  would  have  learned 
that  worse  than  error  is  materialism,  and 
worse  than  materialism  is  war;  he  would 
have  seen  that  men  who  no  longer  hale  vic- 
tims to  the  altar  of  Hercules  are  not  neces- 
sarily nobler  in  action  nor  freer  in  thought. 

The  truth  appears  to  be,  indeed,  that  the 
only  power  which  can  —  or  at  least  com- 
monly does  —  dispel  an  illusion  is  another 
illusion.  The  human  mind  is  so  constituted 
that  it  abhors  a  vacuum  of  lies.  If  we  drive 
out  one,  we  must  put  a  second  more  power- 
ful in  its  place.  Lucretius  himself  was  able 
[  6  ] 


PREFACE 

to  obtain  freedom  from  the  illusion  of  the 
pagan  gods  only  by  making  himself  the 
slave  of  another,  worse,  because  mechanical 
and  lifeless  —  the  dogma  of  fortuitous 
atoms.  Had  he  not  been  comforted  by 
this  empirical  myth,  he  could  never  have 
escaped  from  the  poetic  one  of  Olympus. 
When  the  world  at  large  turned  its  back 
on  the  temple  of  Jupiter,  it  was  because 
it  too  had  found  another  illusion,  one 
sweeter  doubtless  than  the  barren  intel- 
lectualism  of  the  poet,  but  still  an  illu- 
sion. The  Christian  was  not  terrified  by 
thunder  on  the  right,  but  he  avoided  setting 
sail  on  Friday.  If  he  no  longer  poured 
libations  to  the  gods  of  the  lower  world,  he 
was  still  unwilling  to  sit  thirteen  at  table. 
Miracles  were  performed  by  relics  that  are 
now  proven  false.  Worship  and  devotion 
were  paid  to  the  unauthentic  bodies  of  bogus 
saints.  The  particular  sect  or  religion  in 
which,  gentlest  of  readers,  you  and  I  chance 
to  believe,  is,  let  it  be  at  once  granted,  free 
from  illusion.  We  two,  at  any  rate,  eagle- 
like  can  look  with  unflinching  eye  upon  the 
sun  of  truth.  We  doubtless  have  compre- 


PREFACE 

bended  aright  the  mysteries  of  the  universe. 
When,  however,  we  ponder  how  many  are 
the  forms  of  religious  belief  in  the  world 
to-day,  and  that  all  these,  in  measure  as 
they  differ  from  our  own,  must  be  more  or 
less  erroneous,  we  realize  how  small,  how 
negligibly  small,  a  minority  believe  as  you 
and  I  believe;  and  in  consequence,  how 
many  are  still  guided  by  illusion. 

Yet  these  others  who  believe  an  untruth, 
are  perhaps  on  that  account  no  less  amiable 
and  no  less  happy.  For  the  Sicilian  peas- 
ant, a  jewel-bedecked  Madonna  of  wax 
conveys  an  inspiration  the  philosophies  of 
Plato  or  Croce  are  powerless  to  bestow. 
Through  illusion,  during  the  centuries, 
heart-aches  have  been  assuaged,  moral  cour- 
age attained,  death  endured.  A  truth  which 
would  deprive  human  frailty  of  such  a  sol- 
ace would  indeed  be  cruel.  It  is  true 
that  religious  illusion  has  created  not  only 
Gothic  cathedrals,  Miltons,  saints,  but  icon- 
oclasts, inquisitors,  wars.  Yet  the  very 
cruelty,  the  very  hardness  of  religion  bear 
witness  to  its  vitality.  Men  do  not  die,  or 
even  put  to  death,  for  what  is  nothing 
[8  ] 


PREFACE 

to  them.  If  they  have  fought  for  religion, 
it  has  been  because  religion  was  essen- 
tial to  their  happiness.  To-day,  for  all 
our  tolerance  (and  we  are  relatively  toler- 
ant only  because  we  are  relatively  indif- 
ferent), we  hardly  dare  write  or  even  speak 
of  religion.  Experience  has  taught  that 
difference  of  opinion  upon  this  wounds 
more  deeply  than  upon  any  other  subject. 
It  is  clear  that  man  still  clutches  desper- 
ately at  religious  belief.  Only  a  Gre- 
gors  would,  even  if  he  could,  rob  him,  in  the 
interest  of  some  cold  intellectual  truth,  of 
an  illusion  for  which  he  so  ardently  yearns. 

Illusion,  too,  is  the  faith  that  quite  liter- 
ally has  power  to  heal  the  sick  and  move 
mountains.  The  remedy  prescribed  in  the 
Shinto  shrines  of  Japan,  in  the  fanes  of  Aes- 
culapius, in  countless  sanctuaries  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  at  Lourdes,  at  Ste.-Anne-de- 
Beaupre  and  by  Christian  Science  is  always 
the  same,  and  always  effective.  Greek  phy- 
sicians, wiser  than  ours,  recognized  that 
magical  amulets  frequently  produced  re- 
sults for  which  they  were  entirely  unable  to 
account.  The  benefits  we  derive  from  mod- 

[  9  ] 


PREFACE 

ern  medicine  are  doubtless  increased  by  the 
fact  that  we  have  confidence,  perhaps  over- 
confidence,  in  its  power.  It  is  a  banal 
observation  that  in  many  disorders  the 
mental  is  at  least  as  important  as  the 
physical.  Faith  has  indubitably  the  power 
to  create  actuality. 

Of  all  illusions,  the  most  futile  and  the 
most  dangerous  is  that  of  emancipation 
from  illusion.  Lucretius  was  only  one  of  a 
long  series  of  Don  Quixotes  who  have  chiv- 
alrously set  their  lances  in  rest  to  reduce  to 
fact  a  world  whose  lungs  can  only  breathe 
the  air  of  unreality.  At  most,  these  dream- 
breakers  have  but  succeeded  in  replacing  a 
time-bitten  illusion  by  a  less  dusty  one.  The 
eighteenth  century  with  touching  naivete 
set  out  upon  the  fool's  quest  after  truth.  It 
threw  out  upon  the  dung-heap  the  illusion 
of  dogma,  and  set  up  in  its  place  the  illusion 
of  reason.  Rousseau's  noble  savage  fur- 
nished the  leather  from  which  were  resoled 
the  boots  of  Moses. 

There  ensued  an  avalanche  of  minor  con- 
sequences, the  course  of  which  it  is  comical 
enough  to  follow.  The  queen  must  mas- 
[  10  ] 


PREFACE 

querade  as  a  dairy-maid.  To  supply  a  mise- 
en-scene,  Le  Notre's  masterpiece  had  to  be 
trinketed  out  with  toy  lakes  and  dolls' 
houses.  It  subsequently  transpired  that, 
after  all,  savages  never  had  been  noble.  But 
from  illusion,  reality  had  already  resulted. 
Inspired  by  Versailles,  an  entire  school  of 
landscape  gardening  took  its  rise.  Thus  the 
illusion  of  the  noble  savage  becomes  tan- 
gible reality  for  Philemon,  who,  seeking  the 
sunshine  of  a  spring  Sunday,  wanders  list- 
lessly among  the  labyrinthian  pathways  of 
his  city  park. 

The  return  to  nature  was  promptly  dis- 
carded by  the  nineteenth  century,  which  in- 
stead bought  fresh  nostrums  from  new  char- 
latans. The  noble  savage  was  replaced  by 
the  perhaps  equally  imaginary  primitive 
man  of  the  anthropologists.  The  illusion 
of  mechanistic  science  has  produced  another 
crop  of  pragmatic  results,  partly  good, 
mostly  evil  —  and  these  will  perhaps  live 
long  after  the  theory  which  produced  them, 
yielding  to  something  newer,  has  passed, 
like  Lucretius'  atoms,  into  the  charnel-house 
of  discarded  creeds. 


PREFACE 

Nor  is  it  only  in  matters  pertaining  to 
philosophy  that  illusion  hems  us  about.  The 
poetry  of  youth  —  that  golden,  magnetic 
youth  sung  by  Conrad,  youth  that  is  so  full 
of  faith  and  aspiration  and  possibility, 
youth,  the  consummation  of  life  —  is  only  il- 
lusion. Youth  is  youth,  because  only  then 
native  optimism  is  still  undarkened  by  the 
shadow  of  reality.  From  illusion  youth 
gains  its  elasticity  and  buoyancy,  unreach- 
able  to  middle  age,  heavy  with  weary  knowl- 
edge. Through  dreaming  of  the  impos- 
sible, youth  stretches  beyond  the  limits  of 
attainment.  The  strong  man  never  entirely 
outgrows  the  illusions  of  youth.  By  hitch- 
ing our  wagon  to  a  star  we  may  not  succeed 
in  navigating  the  heavens,  but  we  are  at 
least  enabled  to  stand  on  tip-toe.  He  who 
sees  himself  as  he  truly  is,  becomes  the 
most  cowed  and  cringing  of  mortals.  It  is 
vitally  necessary  for  every  one,  in  his  heart 
of  hearts,  to  believe  that  in  some  direction 
he  is  gifted  above  his  fellows,  and  to  this 
necessity  we  happily  all  conform.  Achieve- 
ment is  only  possible  because  we  each,  in- 
stinctively, over-estimate  our  own  worth. 
[  12  ] 


PREFACE 

Thus  the  very  foundations  of  life  are  laid  on 
illusion. 

That  which  we  call  idealism  is  also  only 
the  stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of.  Outraged 
spirits  thus  escape  from  the  prose  of  reality 
to  the  poetry  of  imagination.  This  will-o'- 
the-wisp  has  heartened  many  tired  wander- 
ers. It  is  as  inspiring,  if  not  more  so,  to  im- 
itate an  ideal  as  an  actual  example.  A  man 
may  often  acquire  force  of  character  by  be- 
lieving himself,  or  another,  to  possess  moral 
qualities  not  real,  but  imaginary,  and  then 
striving  with  his  entire  energies  to  realize 
that  conception.  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  Islam,  through  following  the  ideal  of 
Mahomet,  is  vastly  different  from  what  it 
would  have  been,  had  it  followed  the  ideal 
of  Buddha  or  of  Confucius.  No  actual  be- 
ing ever  existed  like  Pisanello's  Gabriel,  yet 
that  dream  of  unreality  brightened  the 
existence  not  only  of  its  creator,  but  of 
generations  who  have  come  after.  All  art, 
indeed,  is  constantly  trespassing  upon  the 
ideal.  And  the  imaginary  non-existent  con- 
ception is  as  constantly  being  translated  into 
fact.  Scientists  have  frequently  observed 
[  13  ] 


PREFACE 

the  power  of  ideals  to  mould  reality  through 
natural  selection.  It  is  similarly  an  ancient 
axiom  that  anything  is  possible  to  him  who 
but  wills  intensely  enough.  What  we  dream 
determines  what  we  become.  Carlyle  is  en- 
tirely right  —  tell  me  what  you  believe,  and 
I  will  tell  you  what  you  are.  The  material 
is  only  clay,  which  is  given  shape  by  the  im- 
material. 

Scholarship,  which  seems  so  cumber- 
some, so  bound  hand  and  foot  to  fact,  is 
in  reality  based  on  illusion.  The  student  one 
day  conceives  intuitively  a  thesis.  He  then 
sets  out  to  collect  facts  to  support  his  point 
of  view.  If  he  be  of  altogether  exceptional 
integrity,  he  may  alter  his  preconceived 
opinion  slightly  —  never  very  much  —  to 
conform  with  the  result  of  his  researches; 
usually,  however,  his  original  idea  remains 
inviolate,  and  is  the  inspiration  which  spurs 
him  on  to  ransack  dusty  folios  and  archives, 
to  decipher  forgotten  records.  When  all  is 
done,  the  future  quickly  discards  the  thesis 
which  has  been  his  pride,  to  support  which  he 
has  expended  years  of  patient  labour.  But 
the  facts  he  has  collected  to  prove  his  point, 


PREFACE 

although  they  fail  of  their  purpose,  may  be 
for  themselves  of  the  highest  importance. 
Once  more  illusion  has  made  achievement 
possible. 

Every  one  has  noticed  that  children  con- 
stantly take  refuge  in  illusion.  Little 
Baukis  imagines  that  her  dolls  are  real  be- 
ings. She  knows  that  actually  they  are 
not,  but  this  knowledge  in  no  wise  inter- 
feres with  her  pleasure  in  naming  them, 
in  lavishing  affection  upon  them,  in  enter- 
ing into  their  fictitious  lives.  The  same 
element  of  illusion  is  the  soul  of  all  toys. 
The  hobby-horse  becomes  alive,  real  houses 
are  constructed  from  the  blocks,  mimic 
automobiles  and  trains  of  cars  annihilate 
space  with  a  success  quite  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  latest  machinery.  The  more  widely 
toys  differ  from  actuality,  the  more  pleas- 
ure will  they  be  apt  to  give.  Philemon  is 
quite  conscious  that  his  son  and  heir  de- 
rives far  less  delight  from  realistic  me- 
chanical toys,  than  an  older  generation 
found  in  simpler,  more  imaginative,  play- 
things. There  is,  as  educationalists  have 
preached  so  much  —  and  so  in  vain — no 
[  15  ] 


PREFACE 

surer  way  to  crush  joy  from  the  life  of  a 
child  than  to  burden  him  with  elaborate 
toys.  For  his  happiness,  like  that  of  all  the 
world,  lies  in  imagination. 

The  child  weaves  about  his  life  a  veil  of 
romance.  Little  Philemon  derives  keener 
pleasure  from  a  simple  fairy-tale  than  his 
mother  does  from  a  novel  of  great  artistry. 
His  childish  imagination  is  always  on  the 
alert.  For  him  the  woods  are  inhabited  by 
strange  animals,  half  terrifying,  half  allur- 
ing. Bogey  shapes  lurk  in  dark  rooms; 
little  pigs  run  along  the  window-sills;  hob- 
goblins dance  naked  in  the  moonshine  of 
summer  nights.  He  lives  in  a  world  that 
has  few  points  of  contact  with  the  more 
sober  one  his  elders  know.  He  is  driven 
by  an  instinct  as  powerful  and  unreasoning 
as  that  of  sex  will  later  become,  always  to 
pretend  something  which  is  one  thing  is 
something  else. 

Of  all  illusions,  the  most  transparent,  per- 
haps, is  love.  When  the  lover,  sighing  like 
a  furnace,  composes  a  sonnet  to  his  mistress* 
eyebrow,  he  probably  actually  believes  the 
object  of  his  affection  is  superior  to  other 
[  16  ] 


PREFACE 

mortals.  This  illusion  sometimes  outlasts 
the  difficult  period  of  adjustment  sad  matri- 
mony entails.  When  at  last  it  inevitably 
dissolves,  there  is  at  least  a  chance  custom 
may  take  its  place,  and  prove  a  force  of 
equal  potency.  Baukis  and  Philemon  fall 
in  love  and  marry.  At  first  each  believes  the 
other  the  realization  of  an  ideal  type.  If 
Baukis  burns  the  toast,  she  is  readily  for- 
given in  view  of  her  imaginary  perfections. 
Philemon  spills  pipe-ashes  on  the  bureau, 
which  of  all  things  tries  most  sorely  the 
very  depths  of  Baukis'  soul;  but  instead  of 
flying  to  the  divorce-court,  Baukis  con- 
tents herself  with  meditating  upon  the  quali- 
ties she  supposes  Philemon  to  possess. 
Years  roll  by.  Philemon  now  and  then 
steals  a  glance  at  Naera's  golden  hair  or 
Chloe's  well -shaped  foot.  Baukis,  on 
the  other  hand,  allows  herself,  very  occa- 
sionally, to  look  deep  into  the  eyes  of 
Adonis.  But  Philemon  has  now  come 
rather  to  prefer  burnt  toast;  and  Baukis 
no  longer  notices  the  pipe-ashes  on  the 
bureau.  So  they  live  together  more  happily 
than  ever,  until  one  day  there  comes  to  knock 
[  17  ] 


PREFACE 

at  their  door  a  gentle  god,  disguised  as  a 
stranger. 

So  on  the  foundation  of  illusion  is  built 
the  mansion  of  happiness.  Possibly  an  in- 
distinct and  instinctive  realization  of  this  is 
the  basis  for  the  romantic  tradition  that 
marriage  should  be  founded  solely  upon  sex 
passion.  Considered  materialistically,  noth- 
ing could  be  more  insensate  than  to  found 
an  enduring  relationship  upon  the  most 
volatile  and  least  abiding  of  human  whims. 
Reason  is  undoubtedly  on  the  side  of  the 
irate  parents ;  Juliet  and  Leandre  would  be 
fools,  Shakespeare,  Moliere,  and  all  the 
other  playwrights  and  novelists  who  arouse 
our  sympathies  for  such  nonsense,  dangerous 
maniacs.  Again,  as  always,  when  illusion 
and  reason  are  arrayed  against  each  other, 
humanity  has  instinctively  followed  the  for- 
mer, rightly  divining  in  her  a  far  safer  guide. 

Indeed,  all  society  is  based  on  illusion. 
Without  it,  intercourse  with  our  fellows 
would  be  utterly  impossible.  A  thousand 
times  in  every  day  human  vanity  must  be 
assuaged  by  its  gentle  ministrations.  We 
are  all  members  of  a  mutual  deception  fra- 
[  18  ] 


PREFACE 

ternity.  The  golden  rule  is  right:  we  must 
do  unto  others  as  we  would  be  done  by.  It 
gives  us  great  pleasure  to  be  admired  and 
liked ;  therefore  we  must  admire  and  like  our 
friends.  It  becomes  a  convention  that  we 
must  pretend  to,  whether  or  not  we  really 
do.  If  Alceste  allows  an  over-nice  con- 
science to  interfere  with  this  pleasant  illu- 
sion, he  is  deservedly  subjected  to  swift  and 
severe  punishment  by  outraged  society. 
Life  would  indeed  be  unendurable  if  we  had 
always  to  live  with  the  truth.  If  Pylades 
should  tell  Philemon  not  that  he  is  glad  to 
see  him,  but  that  he  is  bored  at  his  visit,  each 
would  not  only  lose  a  valued  friend,  but 
gain  a  dangerous  enemy.  Lies  are  the  oil, 
without  which  the  machinery  of  life  can  not 
revolve.  Women,  as  a  rule,  are  more  suc- 
cessful in  society  than  men,  because  they  are 
more  fluent  and  more  convincing  liars.  It 
is  not  only  that  many  important  facts  must 
be  passed  over  in  silence.  If  Baukis  dis- 
likes Phoebe's  barocco  dinner,  the  absence 
of  praise  may  cut  quite  as  deeply  as  adverse 
criticism.  The  situation  can  only  be  saved 
by  lyric  rhapsody.  The  half  lie  of  silence  by 
[  19] 


PREFACE 

which  we  New-Englanders  so  often  seek  to 
.  save  our  perverse  consciences  is  the  most  dis- 
mal of  failures.  To  lie  gracefully,  heartily, 
easily,  unconsciously,  is  a  sine  qua  non  of 
loving,  and  being  loved  by,  one's  fellow  men. 

Life  becomes  an  impossible  burden  for 
the  man  who  tries  to  break  the  illusions  of 
social  intercourse.  Ever  since  the  Misan- 
thrope the  theme  has  been  a  favourite  one 
with  dramatists.  And  there  is  no  escape  from 
the  inexorable  conclusion.  So  long  as  we  live 
in  this  world  with  other  men,  so  long  must 
we  allow  ourselves  to  be  deluded,  so  long 
must  we  play  our  part  in  deluding  others. 

The  world  is  right  in  preferring  the  illu- 
sion-mongers to  the  truth- tellers.  The 
public  will  devour  novels,  while  leaving  ac- 
curate books  of  fact  to  gather  dust  upon  the 
shelves.  Happy  Baukis,  who  creates  the 
sunshine  she  imagines,  is  far  more  valuable 
to  humanity  than  long-faced  Philemon,  who 
sees  the  world  in  its  true  grayness.  Baukis 
will  be  surrounded  by  friends,  while  Phile- 
mon will  live  in  isolation,  for  friendship, 
too,  is  based  on  illusion. 

No  trait  of  human  character  is,  indeed, 
[  20  ] 


PREFACE 

more  entirely  unamiable  than  the  peculiarly 
Anglo-Saxon  vice  of  telling  the  truth.  It  is 
the  acrid  root  from  which  has  grown  the 
sourness  of  Puritanism.  For  centuries  it 
has  poisoned  the  well-springs  of  happiness. 
For  this  theoretical  impossibility  we  have 
sacrificed  art,  religion  and  conversation,  all 
without  once  even  distantly  attaining  our 
aim.  In  our  efforts  to  dispel  illusion  we  have 
rejected  the  best  that  life  offers,  yet  we  are 
more  than  ever  surrounded  by  lies  and  im- 
postures. 

Indeed,  we  should  do  far  better,  I  sus- 
pect, if  we  should  take  for  our  governing 
ideal  in  life,  not  truth  —  which  results  merely 
in  ugly  hypocrisy  —  but  the  artistic  lie.  It 
is  impossible  to  live  in  a  Latin  country,  less 
shackled  than  Anglo-Saxon  lands  by  preju- 
dice in  favour  of  truth,  without  becoming 
aware  how  infinitely  more  pleasant  and 
beautiful  life  becomes  under  such  condi- 
tions. At  first,  perhaps,  our  more  prosaic 
natures  are  slightly  shocked  at  transparent 
prevarications,  but  this  feeling  is  soon  sup- 
planted by  one  of  admiration  for  the  imag- 
ination that  conceives,  for  the  assurance 
[  21  ] 


PREFACE 

which  carries  through,  each  flight  of  fancy. 
A  good  lie  should  be  admired  and  enjoyed 
as  deeply  as  a  great  poem.  Both  are  works 
of  genius.  Both  can  be  produced  only  under 
creative  inspiration.  The  attitude  of  the 
Greeks  was  essentially  right.  Odysseus  the 
resourceful  liar  was  a  far  more  interesting, 
as  well  as  useful  person,  than  the  brute, 
unimaginative  and  therefore  truth-telling 
Achilles.  No  one  can  read  Sophocles' 
Electra  without  taking  pleasure  in  the  in- 
genious lie  by  which  Orestes  and  Pylades 
dupe  Clytemnestra  to  her  undoing.  Even  a 
New-Englander  can  not  be  but  delighted 
over  that  other  tale  which  Iphigenia  in- 
vented for  the  benefit  of  Thoas.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  a  lie,  provided  it  be  sufficiently  well 
done,  is  admirable.  My  own  regret  is,  that, 
try  as  I  will,  I  can  not  tell  a  good,  round, 
mouth-filling  lie.  I  am  as  painfully  unimag- 
inative as  the  proverbial  George  Washing- 
ton. (It  will  be  remembered  he  is  always 
quoted,  alas,  doubtless  only  too  correctly,  as 
having  said  "  I  can  not,"  not  "  I  will  not.") 
My  tongue  is  congealed  by  the  blood  of 
generations  of  unlying  ancestors.  Only 
[  22  ] 


PREFACE 

after  a  fierce  mental  conflict  can  my  reason 
conquer  my  native  instinct  to  tell  the  truth. 
And  when  at  last  the  resolve  has  all  too  late 
been  taken,  the  words  stick  and  catch  in  my 
throat,  or  are  blushingly  stammered  out. 
Better  never  to  have  attempted  than  to  have 
so  lamentably  failed.  It  is  from  such  sorry 
performances  as  this  that  lies  derive  their 
bad  reputation. 

The  arts  depend  upon  lies  for  the  very 
breath  of  life.  One  and  all  they  demand  that 
we  imagine  to  be  what  is  not.  When  we  read 
Homer,  Agamemnon  and  Thersites  and 
Helen  and  Patroklos  become  living  persons. 
We  are  intellectually  well  aware  they  have 
been  dead  thousands  of  years,  we  even  have 
grave  doubts  whether  they  ever  really  lived 
at  all.  We  are  quite  certain  they  did  not 
speak  in  dactylic  hexameters.  Yet  we  de- 
rive delight  from  deliberately  letting  our- 
selves believe  what  we  know  is  not  true. 
Illusion  is  infinitely  pleasurable. 

This  psychological  fact  is  the  basis  of 

all    literature.      Poet,    novelist,    dramatist, 

even   historian,    exploit   it   unscrupulously. 

Whether  we  explore  Paradise  with  Dante, 

[  23  ] 


PREFACE 

or  join  Chaucer's  pilgrimage  to  Canter- 
bury, we  are  constantly  making  demands 
upon  our  imagination.  We  know  that  the 
Castle  of  Elsinor  is  constructed  of  painted 
canvas,  that  Osvald,  far  from  being  mad,  is 
actually  an  actor  of  unusually  fine  intelli- 
gence, who  will  presently  be  bowing  and 
smiling  before  the  curtain.  Such  knowledge, 
however,  we  allow  in  no  wise  to  interfere 
with  our  illusion.  Indeed,  it  is  only  because 
we  are  conscious  of  being  deceived  that  such 
plays  as  Hamlet  or  Ghosts  are  tolerable. 
We  are  most  of  us  hardly  cold-blooded 
enough  to  endure,  much  less  enjoy,  wit- 
nessing such  painful  scenes  in  real  life. 
There  is  an  irresistible  fascination  in  illu- 
sion itself.  In  order  to  obtain  this  delight  we 
accept  the  thousand  conventions  which  in  the 
theatre,  or  in  any  other  art,  separate  from 
reality  the  mimic  show.  Indeed  it  may  be 
suspected  that  these  very  conventions  in- 
crease our  pleasure.  They  constantly  make 
us  conscious  of  the  luxury  of  indulging  in 
illusion.  The  most  realistic  art  is  by  no 
means  the  most  enjoyable.  If  it  should  be 
possible  to  eliminate  entirely  conventions, 
[  24  ] 


PREFACE 

so  as  to  destroy  all  consciousness  of  illusion, 
if  we  should  deeply  feel  that  we  were  pres- 
ent, not  at  a  work  of  art  but  at  reality,  trag- 
edy would  give  us  no  pleasure.  It  is  by  this 
token,  perhaps,  that  the  freer  modern 
drama  fails  to  give  the  delight  of  a  Greek 
play,  and  that,  in  general,  archaic,  formal 
art  is  more  appealing  than  later,  more 
naturalistic  types. 

Fiction  obviously  depends  upon  illusion 
quite  as  fundamentally  as  drama.  When 
Philemon,  sitting  before  the  winter  fire  in 
smoking- jacket  and  slippers,  reads  Fielding, 
he  ceases  more  or  less  for  the  moment  to  be 
Philemon,  and  becomes  Tom  Jones  living  in 
the  London  of  the  eighteenth  century.  No 
doubt  Philemon  is  infinitely  happier  than 
Tom  Jones,  and  would  be  pained  to  find 
himself  actually  standing  in  the  latter's 
shoes.  The  fancy  is,  however,  most  agree- 
able so  long  as  he  can,  at  will,  lay  aside  the 
book,  and  in  his  own  person  talk  over  with 
Baukis  the  latest  local  scandal. 

History  appeals  to  the  same  delight  in 
conscious  illusion.  Each  Alcibiades,  each 
Louis  XI,  each  Qeeen  Elizabeth,  relives  in 
[  25  ] 


PREFACE 

every  reader.  Historians  have  generally 
shown  more  imagination  than  writers  of 
fiction.  Thus  of  the  world's  vast  output  of 
literature  —  poetry,  novel,  essay  or  history 
—  that  which  is  free  from  the  element  of  il- 
lusion would  reduce  itself  to  small  dimen- 
sions, and  still  smaller  value. 

The  painter  and  the  sculptor  trifle  with 
illusion  in  the  same  spirit.  Across  a  veil  of 
conventions  they  are  constantly  making  us 
imagine  we  are  looking,  not  at  a  block  of 
marble  or  a  piece  of  coloured  canvas,  but  at 
something  else  totally  different.  We  thor- 
oughly enjoy  being  fooled,  so  long  as  the  il- 
lusion is  not  too  complete.  A  mirror  which 
is  practically  indistinguishable  from  reality 
has  no  longer  charm.  A  picture  which  be- 
comes too  much  like  a  mirror  we  are  apt  to 
find  equally  unpleasant.  We  must  have  the 
convention  to  remind  us  continually  that 
we  are  tasting  the  most  exquisite  of  delights, 
that  of  believing  something  which  we  know 
is  contrary  to  fact. 

Music  also  has  of  recent  years  tended  more 
and  more  to  encroach  upon  the  realm  of  im- 
agination. Even  when  least  descriptive,  when 
[  26  ] 


PREFACE 

not  seeking  to  imitate  the  world  of  actuality, 
music,  like  architecture  and  the  arts  of  pure 
design,  is  none  the  less  based  on  illusion. 
The  artist  who  has  created,  whether  musi- 
cian, or  architect,  or  designer,  has  inevitably 
first  imagined.  He  conceived  in  his  brain 
something  which  did  not  exist,  an  ideal 
combination  of  columns  and  architraves,  of 
colours  or  patterns,  of  melody  and  harmony, 
and  this  dream  has  then  been  made  concrete 
reality. 

Of  all  illusions,  none  perhaps  so  persist- 
ently haunts  the  human  mind  as  that  of 
peace.  The  essence  of  life  is  struggle,  yet 
we  dream  of  stagnation.  Philemon  rouses 
himself  from  effort  to  effort  —  lights  the 
furnace,  expostulates  with  the  plumber, 
quarrels  with  his  publisher,  sits  out  one  more 
dinner-party,  always  in  the  hope  that  some 
day  he  can  rest.  Each  battle  is  endurable 
because  of  the  belief  that  at  last  will  come 
time  and  leisure,  and  books  and  thought. 
Vainest  of  delusions !  Short  of  death  in  this 
world  of  turmoil  neither  he  nor  any  one  else 
will  ever  find  peace.  As  lives  go,  Philemon's 
has  doubtless  been  singularly  happy.  Luck 
[  27  ] 


PREFACE 

on  the  whole  has  been  strangely  in  his  favour. 
Among  the  reefs  and  shoals  he  has  escaped 
shipwreck  more  than  once,  it  seemed  al- 
most by  a  miracle.  As  each  danger  in  turn 
has  loomed  large  and  menacing,  he  has 
braced  himself  to  meet  it,  cherishing  the  il- 
lusion that  this  once  past  no  others  would 
succeed.  Yet  there  is  not,  nor  can  there  ever 
be,  security.  The  death  of  one,  and  the 
world,  gay  as  a  fresco  of  Pintoricchio,  flakes 
from  the  mouldy  wall. 

The  same  illusion  of  peace  has  weighed 
upon  the  nations.  For  centuries  the  Roman 
armies  toiled,  and  the  dreamed-of  goals  of 
peace  and  safety  seemed  within  their  grasp. 
"  Let  the  Alps  sink! "  Again  illusion.  The 
hordes  of  Alaric  howled  on  the  desolated 
Capitoline. 

Once  more  in  the  Middle  Ages  men  fell 
under  the  illusion  of  peace.  They  dreamed 
of  a  united  Europe,  in  which  Christian 
should  no  longer  fight  against  Christian. 
Under  St.  Louis,  for  a  golden  moment,  the 
ideal  became  reality.  The  seeds  were  being 
sown,  from  which  time  reaped  the  wars  of 
religion  with  their  fruit  of  blood. 
[  28  ] 


PREFACE 

War,  like  peace,  is  an  illusion.  In  every 
conflict  history  knows,  both  sides  have  be- 
lieved, or  at  least  persuaded  themselves,  that 
theirs  was  the  cause  of  right.  Plausible  justi- 
fications for  the  most  shameless  aggressions, 
have  been  not  only  found,  but  sincerely,  even 
passionately,  believed.  No  one  dies,  or 
even  fights  very  well,  for  what  he  believes  is 
wrong.  It  is  illusion  that  is  sending  mil- 
lions to  their  death  on  the  battle-fields  of 
France. 

Illusion,  thus  the  cause  of  war,  is  clearly 
not  always  beneficent.  Religious  perse- 
cutions, human  sacrifices,  Crusades,  Salem 
witchcraft  trials,  juggernauts  and  the  rest 
have  been  a  favourite  theme  with  nineteenth 
century  materialists.  Indeed,  so  strong  an 
emphasis  has  been  laid  upon  the  malevolent 
aspects  of  illusion,  as  to  lead  men  to  forget 
the  deeper  truth  that  its  influence  is  more 
truly  and  more  commonly  benign.  We 
have  tried  to  dispel  illusion,  without  ever 
stopping  to  question  whether,  after  all,  it 
may  not  be  an  essential  of  human  happiness. 
For  centuries  men  have  been  waging  an  in- 
sensate crusade  against  it,  wilfully  ignoring 
[29  ] 


PREFACE 

the  unescapable  fact  that,  whether  for  good 
or  for  evil,  it  is  the  ineradicable  essence  of 
human  life.  As  early  as  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, the  mediaeval  church  became  a  chief 
object  of  attack.  Finding  the  combination 
of  art  and  religion  invincible,  materialism 
divided  the  hitherto  undividable  two,  that 
each  might  be  crushed  separately.  Between 
the  Lutheran  Reformation  and  the  Council 
of  Trent,  Christianity  lost  the  patina  of  cen- 
turies, was  cleaned,  varnished,  made  cold 
and  metallic.  The  effect  was  as  disastrous 
as  when  a  picture  or  a  cathedral  is  subjected 
to  a  similar  process  of  archaeological  restora- 
tion. Religion  deprived  of  art,  and  art  de- 
prived of  religion,  both  fell  into  a  decline. 

Characteristically  enough,  it  was  Ger- 
many that  first  patented,  if  she  did  not  pre- 
cisely invent,  modern  materialism,  as  Ger- 
many has  always  remained  the  principal 
centre  of  its  manufacture.  Unhappily,  Ger- 
man materialism  was  not  preserved  wholly 
unmixed  with  idealistic  elements.  For  in 
that  event  it  must  inevitably  have  proved 
self-destructive,  and  Prussia  have  crumbled, 
sapped  by  degeneration.  Materialism  with- 
[  30  ] 


PREFACE 

out  idealism  is  as  perilous  as  idealism  un- 
tempered  by  materialism.  In  either  excess 
lies  not  only  danger  but  certain  destruction. 
Something  of  this  the  German  despots, 
either  instinctively  or  through  conscious 
reasoning,  appear  to  have  grasped.  They 
counterbalanced  the  impurities  of  their 
materialism  by  an  antiseptic  —  an  antiseptic 
that  was  also  a  poison. 

No  immaterial  power  is  greater  than  that 
of  sacrifice.  A  lioness  or  even  a  song  bird 
will  display  greater  courage  and  strength  in 
fighting  for  her  young  than  for  herself. 
Men  will  endure  for  the  good  of  others, 
privations  they  would  never  support  for 
their  own  advancement.  From  the  unself- 
ishness of  sacrifice  comes  a  strength  no 
interested  motive  can  ever  give.  Sacrifices 
can  only  be  made  for  an  ideal,  an  illusion. 
An  atheist  brings  no  offering.  The  spirit  of 
sacrifice,  although  perverted,  is  still  the  al- 
cohol which  has  made  German  materialism 
formidable. 

Forty  years  ago  there  remained  in  Ger- 
many an  illusion  only  slightly  damaged 
by  the  attacks  of  the  illusion-breakers,  per- 
[  31  ] 


PREFACE 

haps  the  only  one  capable  of  arousing  en- 
thusiasm among  a  materialistic  people  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  It  was  the  illusion  of 
military  power,  ancient  and  seductive  as  sin. 
The  sacrifices  made  for  this  ideal  seem  to 
have  saved  Prussia,  at  least  temporarily, 
from  disintegration.  The  Germans  dreamed 
of  conquest  and  empire  and  glory,  and  of 
the  right  of  the  strong,  and  in  this  dream 
found  a  power  outside  of  the  physical. 
Materialism  acquired  wicked  strength 
through  the  force  of  immaterialism.  The 
outcome  of  the  war  depended  not  so  much 
upon  whether  our  materialism  was  more 
powerful  than  German  materialism,  but 
upon  whether  our  immaterialism  was 
greater.  It  depended  upon  whether  our 
ideals  more  than  the  Teutonic  ideals  were 
able  to  inspire  us  with  willingness  to  sacri- 
fice, with  strength  to  do  and  with  courage  to 
die.  The  war  of  1914  was  thus  the  final 
proof  of  the  impotence  of  fact. 

It  seems,  therefore,  clear  that  the  modern 

age   has   been   misguided   in   its   exclusive 

search  after  truth.    Our  pursuit  of  fact  has 

perverted,  but  in  no  wise  destroyed,  our 

[  32  ] 


PREFACE 

imagination.  The  attempt  to  disregard  a 
fundamental  law  of  human  nature  has  again 
demonstrated  the  truth  of  Hamlet's  para- 
dox: Nothing  is,  but  what  is  not.  Illusion 
is  a  necessity.  Without  it  we  should  have 
neither  religion,  art,  literature,  initiative, 
achievement,  love,  patriotism,  nor  what  else 
makes  life,  at  moments,  sweet.  Monism  has 
once  more  proved  fatally  inadequate.  In 
the  temple  of  life,  side  by  side  with  the  lamp 
of  truth,  there  burns  with  equal  brightness, 
and  to  be  disregarded  only  at  the  gravest 
risk,  the  lamp  of  lies. 

April  1,  1919 


THE  SEVEN  WHO  SLEPT 


[Ephesus  at  sunrise.  Malchus  is  slinking 
in  the  shadow  of  the  colonnaded  street. 
After  a  moment  of  hesitation,  he  ac- 
costs with  resolution  Alexander  of 
Tralles.] 

MALCHUS  [rapidly  and  in  a  low  voice]. 
You  are  a  physician? 

ALEXANDER.     Stranger,  no. 
MALCHUS    [draws    back,    discouraged}. 
Your  scarlet  gown  — 

ALEXANDER.    I  am  only  a  student,  striv- 
ing to  learn  how  to  become  a  physician.    My 
name  is  Alexander  of  Tralles. 
MALCHUS  [puzzled'].    So? 
ALEXANDER   [with  emphasis].     Alexan- 
der of  Tralles. 

MALCHUS  [catching  his  cue  with  some 
difficulty,  and  bowing].  The  celebrated 
Alexander  of  Tralles. 

[  35  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

ALEXANDER.  If  my  name  is  somewhat 
known,  it  is  only  because  the  world  little 
imagines  what  physicians  should,  and  one 
day  will,  accomplish. 

MALCHTJS.    I  come  to  you  for  help. 

ALEXANDER.    What  is  your  name? 

MALCHUS.  Not  being  like  you,  famous, 
my  name  does  not  matter. 

ALEXANDER  [curious  and  suspicious}. 
Stranger,  if  you  want  help  from  a  physi- 
cian, you  must  begin  by  giving  —  your  con- 
fidence. Otherwise  your  time  and  mine  are 
wasted. 

MALCHUS.  The  time  of  a  great  physician 
must  be  paid  for  in  proportion  to  his  fame. 

ALEXANDER.  I  have  other  aims  than  fees. 
When  I  have  treated  you,  pay  me  or  not  as 
you  wish.  .  .  .  What  is  your  name? 

MALCHUS  [reluct antly\ .    Malchus. 

ALEXANDER.    You  are  from  the  East? 

MALCHUS.    No,  an  Ephesian. 

ALEXANDER  [sarcastic] .  So  I  might  have 
judged  from  your  clothes  and  from  your 
speech.  —  What  is  your  trouble? 

MALCHUS  [eagerly,  holding  out  his  hand]. 
Feel  my  pulse! 

[  36  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

ALEXANDER  [feeling  if\.  It  is  a  little 
fast. 

MALCHUS.     Is  it  not  very  fast? 

ALEXANDER.    No. 

MALCHUS.  The  pulse  of  a  man  with 
fever? 

ALEXANDER  [feeling  his  temples'].  You 
have  no  fever. 

MALCHUS.  But  that  may  come  later. 
The  pulse  begins  to  throb  before  the  fever 
comes.  Is  it  not  so? 

ALEXANDER.  Your  pulse  is  not  the  pulse 
of  a  sick  man. 

MALCHUS.  Not  sick  yet,  but  I  shall  be. 
I  will  be. 

ALEXANDER.  It  is  the  pulse  of  a  man 
who  is  under  intense  excitement  —  [signifi- 
cantly] who  is  in  danger. 

MALCHUS.  No  no,  it's  fever.  It  must 
be  fever. 

ALEXANDER.    You  wish  a  fever? 

MALCHUS.    I  must  have  fever. 

ALEXANDER.  The  thought  may  only  too 
probably  induce  the  reality.  No  one  should 
think  such  things. 

MALCHUS.    I  must  have  fever. 
[  37  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

ALEXANDER.  How  many  sick  would  be 
well,  and  you  a  well  man  would  be  sick! 

MALCHTJS.    If  the  fever  would  only  come ! 

ALEXANDER.  Foolish  stranger,  I  am  a 
physician,  who  cures  the  sick  —  not  [with 
sinister  emphasis]  an  executioner. 

MALCHUS  [starts  —  then  quickly}.  I 
thought  I  had  fever. 

ALEXANDER  [overcome  by  curiosity]. 
Why  do  you  wish  to  be  ill? 

MALCHUS  [impulsively].  That  I  may 
not  be  mad! 

ALEXANDER  [startled,  weighing  the 
word].  Mad? 

MALCHUS.  Mad!  Would  not  you  rather 
be  ill  than  mad? 

ALEXANDER  [after  a  pause,  with  altered 
voice].  I  am  sorry  for  you. 

MALCHUS  [half  to  himself].  So,  then, 
it  is. 

ALEXANDER.  And  I  believe  I  can  help 
you. 

MALCHUS.    Tell  me  one  thing. 

ALEXANDER.    If  I  can,  gladly. 

MALCHUS.    I  want  the  truth. 

ALEXANDER.    I  shall  tell  you  the  truth. 
[  38  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

MALCHUS.  Do  people  who  are  mad  know 
they  are  mad? 

ALEXANDER.    No. 

MALCHUS.    So  I  thought. 

ALEXANDER.    Why  do  you  ask? 

MALCHUS.  Because,  you  see,  I  know 
that  I  am  mad. 

ALEXANDER.  We  physicians  call  a  man 
who  knows  that  he  is  mad  [suddenly  con- 
fronting him} — by  another  name. 

MALCHUS  [following  his  own  thoughts}. 
Is  madness  never  cured? 

ALEXANDER  [softly].  Your  madness  can, 
and  will  be  cured. 

MALCHUS  [turning  quickly  upon  him}. 
You  admit  it  then,  that  I  am  mad? 

ALEXANDER.  I  admit  that  you  have  been 
mad. — What  was  it  drove  you  to  it? 

MALCHUS.  The  most  beautiful  idea  in 
the  world. 

ALEXANDER.    You,  too! 

MALCHUS.     An     idea    which    might  — 
which  will  —  cure  all  the  ills  of  the  universe. 

ALEXANDER.  And  you  thought  long  and 
intensely  of  this  idea? 

MALCHUS.    It  became  —  and  is  —  my  life. 
[  39  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

ALEXANDER.  And  this  idea  made  you  — 
misunderstood  ? 

MALCHUS.  It  is  too  beautiful  for  the 
world  to  understand  —  as  yet. 

ALEXANDER.  It  is  very  dangerous  for  a 
man  to  be  born  before  his  time. 

MALCHUS.  And  so  I  have  thought  and 
thought  —  about  this  idea. 

ALEXANDER  [trying  to  draw  him  out]. 
And  then? 

MALCHUS  [eagerly].  Have  you  passed 
through  the  Antioch  Gate  this  morning? 

ALEXANDER  [surprised}.  I  have  just 
come  from  there. 

MALCHUS  [intensely'}.  Has  anything 
happened  to  the  gate? 

ALEXANDER.    How  should  it? 

MALCHUS.     Since  last  night. 

ALEXANDER.    What  do  you  mean? 

MALCHUS.    Since  I  went  out  last  night. 

ALEXANDER.    The  gate  is  as  usual. 

MALCHUS  [lowering  his  voice}.  The  piss- 
tor  sometimes  lays  snares  to  take  those  he 
is  in  search  of. 

ALEXANDER  [again  leading  him  on}. 
Yes,  clever  snares. 

[  40  ] 


THE    SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

MALCHUS  [feeling  his  way].  Do  you 
think  the  praetor  should  lay  snares  to  take 
Christians  ? 

ALEXANDER.  It  is  his  duty  to  punish 
those  who  break  the  law. 

MALCHUS.  Last  night  he  put  a  cross 
over  the  city  gate. 

ALEXANDER.  The  cross  has  always  been 
there. 

MALCHUS.  You  don't  know  what  I  mean 
-I  mean  a  cross,  made  of  two  pieces  of 
wood,  so.  The  praetor  last  night,  I  say,  put 
a  cross  on  the  gate. 

ALEXANDER.    I  did  not  notice. 

MALCHUS  [troubled].  You  didn't  see  it 
then? 

ALEXANDER  [reassuringly'].  I  shall  go 
and  look. 

MALCHUS.    And  that  is  not  the  worst. 

ALEXANDER.  There  is  something  else 
which  alarms  you? 

MALCHUS.  The  whole  city  is  full  of 
crosses.  I  see  them  on  the  street-corners 
and  over  great,  strange  buildings.  I  see 
them  everywhere. 

ALEXANDER.    They  trouble  you? 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

MALCHUS.  And  there  are  crucifixes  with 
lamps  burning  before  them. 

ALEXANDER  [significantly].  And  in  the 
churches  are  confessionals. 

MALCHUS.  It  is  all  a  wicked  trick  to 
take  people  who  have  never  done  harm. 

ALEXANDER  [gently] .  The  door  to  safety 
is  always  ajar. 

MALCHUS.  But  to  have  done  this  all  in 
one  night !  He  must  have  been  aided  by  the 
demons. 

ALEXANDER.    One  night? 

MALCHUS.  And  then  the  whole  city  is 
changed. 

ALEXANDER  [trying  to  piece  together]. 
What  city? 

MALCHUS.  I  recognize  these  colonnades, 
the  gate,  the  temple,  even  the  very  drum 
of  Scopas.  But  the  rest  is  topsy-turvy.  It 
is  all  wrong.  You  see  I  forget  I  am  mad. 

ALEXANDER.    Yes,  you  are  mad. 

MALCHUS.  Yet  it  is  not  strange  that  I 
know  it?  It  is  that  which  torments  me. 

ALEXANDER.     I  know  the  remedy. 

MALCHUS.    What  is  it,  then? 

ALEXANDER.  I  shall  show  you.  But  first 
[  42  ] 


THE   SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

I  must  tell  you  of  another  case  I  had,  pre- 
cisely like  yours. 

MALCHUS.    Like  mine? 

ALEXANDER.     Symptom  for  symptom. 

MALCHUS.    I  want  to  know  that  man. 

ALEXANDER.  Even  knowing  of  him  may 
help  you. 

MALCHUS.    You  cured  him? 

ALEXANDER.  Yes,  it  was  really  I  who 
cured  him. 

MALCHUS.     How? 

ALEXANDER.  That  man  was  an  assassin. 
He  killed  to  steal. 

MALCHUS.    May  he  be  forgiven! 

ALEXANDER.  He  has  been  forgiven — as 
you  shall  be. 

MALCHUS  [beginning  to  understand].    I? 

ALEXANDER.  He  strangled  a  miser — a 
thin  old  man  whose  skin  had  dried  up  be- 
neath his  long,  scraggy  hairs.  Then  he  put 
the  chest  of  gold  on  a  donkey,  and  so  carried 
it  away  to  the  mountains. 

MALCHUS.  He  would  go  to  the  moun- 
tains. 

ALEXANDER.  Yes,  the  mountains  of 
Sekia. 

[  43  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

MALCHUS  [starts]. 

ALEXANDER.  And  he  looked  about  for 
a  place  to  hide  the  gold.  After  a  time  he 
found  a  cave. 

MALCHUS  [terrified].    A  cave? 

ALEXANDER.  A  deep  cavern,  of  which 
the  entrance  was  concealed  by  vines  and 
leaves. 

MALCHUS  [quickly,  trying  to  turn  the 
subject].  Did  they  find  out  who  killed  the 
old  man? 

ALEXANDER  [noting  his  agitation] .  Never. 
And  they  never  shall. 

MALCHUS.    But  you  know? 

ALEXANDER.  Because  the  murderer  told 
me.  If  I  tell  you  now,  it  is  that  I  may 
help  you  as  I  helped  him.  He  died  not 
long  ago. 

MALCHUS  [relieved].    Ah,  he  is  dead. 

ALEXANDER.  He  died  one  of  the  most 
honoured  citizens  of  Ephesus. 

MALCHUS.    Well? 

ALEXANDER.  For  when  he  came  to  the 
vine-covered  cavern  on  the  mountain  of 
Sekia  — 

MALCHUS  [interrupting,  again  trying  to 
[  44  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

parry~\.     Why  should  the  Ephesians  have 
honoured  a  murderer  and  a  thief? 

ALEXANDER.  Because  he  followed  my  ad- 
vice. It  was  my  greatest  cure. 

MALCHUS.    Indeed? 

ALEXANDER.  That  is  the  bitterness  of 
destiny.  The  most  brilliant  cure  I  have  ever 
effected,  and  I  have  never  been  able  to  speak 
of  it. 

MALCHUS.    I  begin  to  see. 

ALEXANDER.  A  cure  that  not  only  would 
have  added  to  my  own  fame,  but  would  have 
been  of  infinite  service  to  other  physicians. 

MALCHUS.    It  was  a  discovery,  then? 

ALEXANDER.  Yes,  really  a  discovery. 
A  great  fundamental  principle  of  nature. 
And  so  simple,  too.  Any  one  could 
apply  it. 

MALCHUS.    Yet  you  never  told. 

ALEXANDER.  Never,  except  now  I  am 
going  to  tell  you. 

MALCHUS.  How  could  you  keep  it 
secret  ? 

ALEXANDER.  It  was  hard,  but  I  had  to. 
To  have  spoken  a  word  would  have  spoiled 
all. 

[  45  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

MALCHUS.  Then  you  were  wise  to  say 
nothing. 

ALEXANDER.  Indeed  I  was.  But  now  I 
shall  tell  you. 

MALCHUS.    Well? 

ALEXANDER.  My  discovery  is  this.  Mad- 
ness is  often  caused  [significantly]  by  a 
guilty  conscience. 

MALCHUS  [boldly].  Why  should  you 
say  this  to  me  ? 

ALEXANDER.  And  to  cure  the  madness  it 
is  necessary  to  wash  the  conscience,  cleanse 
it  thoroughly,  hang  it  up  in  the  air  and  in 
the  sun. 

MALCHUS  [protecting'].  Before  apply- 
ing a  remedy  you  should  be  sure  of  your 
diagnosis. 

ALEXANDER.  But  I  was!  I  recognized 
instantly  the  malady.  And  I  prescribed  the 
remedy,  that  I  now  recommend  to  you. 

MALCHUS.    Tome! 

ALEXANDER.  With  the  money  he  had 
stolen,  he  built  a  chapel. 

MALCHUS  [struck  by  the  word].  A 
chapel? 

ALEXANDER.  So  he  atoned  for  his  crime. 
[  46  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

And  he  died  a  short  time  ago,  honoured  and 
praised  by  all  the  city.  His  conscience  was 
absolved,  he  became  happy  and  sane. 

MALCHTJS.     You  have  almost  diagnosed 
my  case. 

ALEXANDER  [triumphant].    I  knew  it! 

MALCHUS.     But    you     are     completely 
wrong. 

ALEXANDER.     Yet  my  remedy  will  save 
you. 

MALCHUS   [sadty~\.     Your  remedy  does 
not  apply. 

ALEXANDER.    Tell  me  the  truth.    You  see 
I  stand  your  friend,  ready  to  help  you. 

MALCHUS  [slowly'].    I  dare  not. 

ALEXANDER  [softly'].    So  bad  as  that? 

MALCHUS.    No  —  so  good. 

ALEXANDER.     That  way  madness  lies! 

MALCHUS    [deeply    troubled].     Yes,    I 
think  I  am  a  little  mad. 

ALEXANDER.     That  other,  when  he  came 
to  me,  was  mad. 

MALCHUS.    How  did  he  show  it? 

ALEXANDER.    Like  you  he  walked  on  tip- 
toe, never  striking  the  ground  with  his  heel. 

MALCHUS.    I  have  nothing  to  fear. 
[  47  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

ALEXANDER.  Like  you,  his  eyes  avoided 
one's  glance. 

MALCHUS  [looking  steadily  at  him}. 
That  is  not  true. 

ALEXANDER.  Like  you  he  saw  things 
which  did  not  exist. 

MALCHUS  [intense] .  What  do  you  mean 
by  that  ?  What  did  he  see  ? 

ALEXANDER.  He  came  to  me,  his  entire 
body  trembling  like  a  leaf. 

MALCHUS.  I  do  not  tremble  [holding  out 
his  arm].  See,  my  hand  is  firm! 

ALEXANDER.    Not  so  very  steady. 

MALCHUS.  What  did  he  see?  [eagerly], 
Was  there  something  on  the  city  gate? 

ALEXANDER.  Stranger  than  that.  What 
he  told  me  was  this.  When  he  had  taken 
the  gold  to  the  mountain  of  Sekia  — 

MALCHUS  [defiant].    Well? 

ALEXANDER.  You  remember  —  after  the 
murder  —  I  began  to  tell  you  — 

MALCHUS  [self -controlled].  Yes,  after 
the  murder  — 

ALEXANDER.  Well,  he  hunted  around  for 
a  cave  on  the  mountain. 

MALCHUS.    In  which  to  hide  the  gold? 
[  48  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

ALEXANDER.  Exactly.  At  last  he  found 
a  cave,  or  at  least  so  he  said. 

MALCHUS.    And  he  left  the  gold  there? 

ALEXANDER.  No,  he  left  the  gold  on  the 
donkey  outside,  and  went  in  to  explore  the 
cave. 

MALCHUS  [intense].  To  see  if  it  was  a 
suitable  place  to  leave  his  treasure. 

ALEXANDER.  Precisely.  But  just  then 
an  extraordinary  thing  happened. 

MALCHUS  [losing  control} .  Tell  me  what 
you  know ! 

ALEXANDER.  Of  course  I  don't  believe 
it  for  a  moment.  At  the  time  I  didn't  be- 
lieve it. 

MALCHUS  [impatient].     Believe  what? 

ALEXANDER.  He  was  clearly  as  mad  as 
March.  He  just  imagined  that  he  saw  it. 

MALCHUS  [again  becoming  cautious]. 
That  is  probable. 

ALEXANDER.  Yet  there  were  strange 
things  about  it  —  things  not  easy  to  explain. 

MALCHUS  [uneasy] .    What  do  you  mean  ? 

ALEXANDER.  There  was  a  legend  through 
the  country-side.  People  had  been  whisper- 
ing to  each  other. 

[  49  .] 


MALCHUS.  What  had  they  been  whisper- 
ing? 

ALEXANDER.  Exactly  what  he  thought 
he  saw. 

MALCHUS.    Tell  me  what  you  know! 

ALEXANDER.  Mind  you,  I  have  never  be- 
lieved a  word  of  it.  The  hallucination  of  a 
guilty  conscience,  that  is  what  I  call  it.  That 
made  him  imagine  he  had  seen  things. 

MALCHUS.  When  one  is  mad,  one  does 
imagine. 

ALEXANDER.    And  the  proof  of  it  is  this. 

MALCHUS.     You  are  too  right. 

ALEXANDER.  When  he  tried  to  go  back 
to  the  cave,  he  could  never  find  his  way. 

MALCHUS  [with  rising  excitement}.  Tell 
me  what  you  know! 

ALEXANDER  [observing  his  emotion']. 
He  even  claimed  that  his  cure  was  due  not 
to  me,  but  to  this  pretended  vision  of  his. 
But  I  can  prove  he  lied. 

MALCHUS.    What  did  he  see? 

ALEXANDER  [tantalizing}.    The  proof  is 
this.     After  the  vision  he  kept  the  blood- 
money.    For  all  his  madness  and  terror  he 
did  not  forget  to  look  after  that. 
[  50  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

MALCHUS.    Blood-money? 

ALEXANDER.  But  I  made  him  give  it  up. 
Then  his  conscience  was  freed,  and  his  soul 
was  healed. 

MALCHUS.    What  did  he  see? 

ALEXANDER.    In  the  cave? 

MALCHUS.    Go  on. 

ALEXANDER.    I  will  tell  you  what  he  said. 

MALCHUS.    Well? 

ALEXANDER.  He  said  that  after  he  had 
penetrated  some  distance  in  the  cave  —  the 
darkness  —  I  have  forgotten  just  how 
he  expressed  it  [watching  Malchus  nar- 
rowly]. 

MALCHUS  [with  forced  calm].  Why  do 
you  look  at  me  like  that? 

ALEXANDER.  The  darkness  suddenly  be- 
came light. 

MALCHUS  [surprised'].  That  was  sin- 
gular. 

ALEXANDER.  Although  he  couldn't  in 
the  least  tell  from  whence  the  light  came. 

MALCHUS.    What  did  he  see? 

ALEXANDER.  And  by  this  light  he  saw 
—  seven  men  asleep. 

MALCHUS  [in  terror] .  Seven  men  asleep ! 
[  51  1 


THE   SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

ALEXANDER.  Seven  men  asleep.  They 
were  all  seated  on  rocks  and  sleeping. 

MALCHUS  [gathering  himself  together]. 
They  must  have  been  brigands. 

ALEXANDER.  And  they  were  all  dressed 
in  togas  —  beautiful  white  flowing  togas 
such  as  are  no  longer  worn  in  Ephesus  [eye- 
ing him  closely].  Togas  like  yours. 

MALCHUS  [trying  to  control  himself], 
He  was  clearly  mad. 

ALEXANDER.  But  it  is  strange  he  should 
have  thought  he  had  seen  the  seven  who 
sleep. 

MALCHUS  [struck  by  the  phrase].  The 
seven  who  sleep? 

ALEXANDER.  The  peasants  talk  much  of 
them.  And  they  say  they  only  appear  to 
men  whose  souls  are  in  danger.  You  have 
surely  heard  the  legend? 

MALCHUS.    No. 

ALEXANDER.  Legends  run  like  wildfire 
on  the  mountains.  They  say  that  long  ago, 
when  they  were  persecuting  the  Christians, 
seven  saints  fled  from  Ephesus  to  the  moun- 
tain of  Sekia. 

MALCHUS.    Seven  saints? 
[  52  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

ALEXANDER.  And  there  they  still  sleep 
on.  But  at  times,  when  some  one  is  sick  at 
soul,  his  footsteps  are  mysteriously  drawn 
to  the  seven  who  sleep. 

MALCHUS  [with  intense  emotion} .  When 
did  these  seven  fall  asleep? 

ALEXANDER.     Hundreds  of  years  ago. 

MALCHUS  [with  uncontrolled  excite- 
ment} .  What  were  their  names  ? 

ALEXANDER.  Their  names  have  been  for- 
gotten for  centuries. 

MALCHUS.  And  they  sleep  in  the  far  end 
of  the  cave? 

ALEXANDER.    So  they  say. 

MALCHUS.  Each  seated  on  a  stone,  and  all 
wearing  togas.  And  they  sit  three  and  four? 

ALEXANDER.  Yes,  he  did  say,  they  sat 
three  and  four. 

MALCHUS.  So  they  have  been  sleeping 
for  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years. 

ALEXANDER.  Have  you  too  seen  the  seven 
who  sleep? 

MALCHUS.    I  have  seen  —  a  miracle! 

ALEXANDER.    You? 

MALCHUS  [exalted].  My  madness  is 
cured. 

[  53  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

ALEXANDER.  And  it  is  I,  I  who  have 
done  it. 

MALCHUS.    Not  you. 

ALEXANDER.  Not  the  seven  who  sleep, 
but  I! 

MALCHUS.    Through  you. 

ALEXANDER.  You  both  must  needs  come 
to  me. 

MALCHUS.    For  your  help,  I  thank  you. 

ALEXANDER.  I  could  be  of  greater 
service. 

MALCHUS.  The  cure  is  complete.  I  am 
your  debtor  [puts  his  hand  in  his  wallet}. 

ALEXANDER  [restraining  him}.  Let  no 
gold  come  between  you  and  me.  I  ask  no 
pay  of  you,  —  only  service. 

MALCHUS.  Service  shall  be  given  for 
service ! 

ALEXANDER.    Justice  for  service! 

MALCHUS.    Justice? 

ALEXANDER.  When  you  hear  men  talk 
of  Alexander  of  Tralles,  speak  well  of  me. 

MALCHUS.    You  ask  only  this? 

ALEXANDER.    That  is  all. 


II 

[The  shop  of  a  baker.  Customers  and 
idlers. ] 

THE  BISHOP'S  MAN.  A  dozen  loaves  for 
his  lordship  the  bishop ! 

THE  BAKER  [serving  him].  A  dozen 
loaves  of  fine  white  flour  —  and  a  bun  with 
a  plum  for  Julian. 

THE  BISHOP'S  MAN.    He,  he! 

AN  IDLER  [punching  his  neighbour].  A 
bun  with  a  plum  for  Julian ! 

SECOND  IDLER.    Julian  the  acolyte. 

THE  BISHOP'S  MAN  [goes  out}. 

THE  BAKER.  Every  day  new  honours,  is 
it  not  shameful? 

THE  IDLER.   Sub-deacon,  deacon,  priest  — 

SECOND  IDLER.    Ordinary,  cardinal,  abbot. 

THE  BAKER.    Next  it  will  be  co-bishop. 

THE  IDLER.    Or  bishopess  [laughter]. 

THE  BAKER.  I  curse  and  wish  them  ill, 
the  two  of  them! 

THE  CROWD  [frightened,  is  silent}. 

THE  BAKER  [enraged  at  the  silence,  beat- 
[  55  ] 


THE    SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

ing  the  counter  with  his  fist~\.    I  curse  and 
wish  the  bishop  ill. 

THE  STUDENT  [young  and  handsome, 
coming  forward  from  the  crowd] .  Why,  my 
friend? 

THE  BAKER.  For  all  the  mischief  he  has 
done. 

THE  STUDENT.     I,  too. 

THE  BAKER.  Is  it  right  that  he  should 
ride  in  a  coach,  while  I  walk  on  foot  ? 

THE  STUDENT.  If  he  walked  more  it 
would  be  better  for  his  health. 

THE  BAKER.  Why  should  I  bake,  while 
he  eats? 

THE  STUDENT.  He  has  gout  from  over- 
feeding, while  the  poor  starve. 

THE  BAKER.    Why  is  he  better  than  I? 

THE  STUDENT.  Why  should  not  every 
man  be  given  the  bishop's  chance? 

THE  BAKER.  I  say  the  poor  must  be  like 
the  rich. 

THE  STUDENT.  And  I  that  the  rich  must 
be  like  the  poor. 

THE  IDLER.    Down  with  the  bishop ! 

THE  BAKER  [to  the  student}.  I  tell  you 
the  bishop  is  a  thief. 

[  56  ] 


THE   SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

THE  IDLER  [interrupting].  He  has 
stolen  the  people's  money. 

THE  BAKER  [beating  the  counter].  He 
has  stolen  my  money ! 

THE  IDLER  [laughing].    Your  money! 

THE  BAKER  [furious] .  My  money.  You 
know  the  chapel  on  the  mountain  of  Sekia? 
—  That  is  my  chapel. 

THE  IDLER  [jeering].  Ha,  the  baker's 
chapel ! 

THE  BAKER.  Yes,  my  chapel,  built  with 
my  money. 

THE  STUDENT.    Your  money? 

THE  BAKER.  My  money.  Money  that 
should  have  belonged  to  me. 

THE  STUDENT.    How  so? 

THE  BAKER  [lowering  his  voice].     The 
man  who  built  that  chapel  —  saint  they  call 
him — [sneering]    the   bishop   calls   him  — 
was — [shouting]  a  thief ! 

THE  IDLER.    A  thief! 

THE  BAKER.    A  thief  and  a  murderer  ! 

THE  IDLER.    A  murderer! 

THE  BAKER.  He  killed  my  uncle  and 
stole  his  gold. 

THE  IDLER.    The  rascal! 
[57  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BAKER.  And  then  he  gives  to  the 
bishop  to  build  a  church,  the  money  that 
should  be  mine. 

THE  STUDENT.  Did  all  the  money  go 
for  the  church? 

THE  BAKER.  The  bishop  kept  the  half 
for  himself. 

THE  IDLER.    You  know  that? 

THE  STUDENT.  It  is  not  that,  but  the 
bishop  he  knows. 

THE  SECOND  IDLER  [to  the  Baker]. 
If  the  money  were  yours,  what  better  would 
you  do  with  it? 

THE  BAKER.  I  should  ride  in  a  coach  like 
my  lord  bishop. 

THE  IDLER.  The  bishop  should  be  made 
to  give  it  up. 

THE  BAKER.    Give  it  up?    Not  he! 

THE  SECOND  IDLER.  The  gold  spent 
on  the  chapel  was  used  for  a  good 
end. 

THE  BAKER.  So  the  bishop  said  when  I 
asked  him  to  disgorge. 

THE  STUDENT.    The  bishop  knows? 

THE  BAKER.    And  has  always  known. 

THE  IDLER.    You  went  to  him? 
[  58  ] 


THE   SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BAKER.  The  instant  I  pieced  to- 
gether the  story. 

THE  IDLER.    How  did  you  discover  it? 

THE  BAKER.  I  have  the  best  of  infor- 
mation. 

THE  IDLER.    You  should  have  the  money. 

THE  BAKER.  The  bishop  threatened  me 
with  excommunication  if  I  ever  so  much  as 
spoke  of  it. 

THE  IDLER.    The  lazy  thief! 

THE  BAKER.    Down  with  the  bishop! 

THE  IDLER.  And  he  dressing  in  damasks 
and  buying  carved  boxes  of  ebony. 

SECOND  IDLER.  And  images  of  the  Vir- 
gin all  gilded. 

THE  IDLER.  And  paintings  too  and 
icons. 

THE  BAKER.  And  living  in  a  palace  with 
marble  columns  and  great  arches. 

THE  IDLER.  And  building  himself  a 
chapel  with  golden  mosaics. 

THE  STUDENT.  Art  must  be  for  all  the 
people ! 

THE  BAKER.  We'll  sack  his  palace  for 
him. 

THE  IDLER.  You  dare  not  raise  your  hand. 
[  59  ] 


THE   SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BAKER.    Who  says  I  dare  not? 

THE  IDLER.    I ! 

THE  BAKER.    You! 

THE  STUDENT  [intervening  to  make 
peace].  They  say  last  night  there  was  a 
light  on  the  mountain  of  Sekia. 

THE  IDLER  [crossing  himself].  Some  one 
has  seen  the  seven ! 

THE  STUDENT.    The  seven  who  sleep. 

THE  BAKER.  When  they  have  been  seen, 
the  sky  always  glows. 

THE  IDLER.  Some  soul  has  been  in 
danger. 

THE  STUDENT.  If  it  should  be  the 
bishop  ? 

THE  BAKER.  His  soul  will  boil  in 
Hell. 

THE  IDLER  [gloating].  And  I  shall 
reach  down  to  him  drops  of  water. 

MALCHUS  [in  the  doorway].  May  I  buy 
bread  from  you? 

THE  IDLER.  Yes,  stranger,  and  his  soul 
too,  if  you  will  pay  for  it. 

THE  BAKER  [seizing  a  rolling-pin]. 
Blood  of  Christ,  you  shall  pay  for  that! 

THE  STUDENT  [interposing].  No  quar- 
[  60  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

railing  among  friends.     Save  your  hate  for 
common  enemies. 

THE  BAKER.  Right,  the  bishop  shall  pay 
for  all. 

THE  IDLER.  We'll  square  counts  with 
the  bishop. 

THE  STUDENT.    Only  not  too  fast ! 

MALCHUS  [shrinking  within  himself]. 
Give  me  seven  loaves  of  bread. 

THE  BAKER  [serving  him].  A  hearty 
breakfast  for  a  simple  man.  The  bishop 
with  all  his  household  takes  only  a  dozen. 

THE  IDLER.  And  a  bun  with  a  plum  for 
Julian. 

THE  BAKER.    Ha,  ha! 

THE  STUDENT  [to  Malchus~\.  You  eat 
like  a  man  who  has  great  hunger. 

MALCHUS.  Yes,  one  is  hungry  —  after 
one  has  slept. 

THE  STUDENT.    You  come  from  far? 

MALCHUS.  Yes,  from  farther  than  the 
end  of  the  world. 

THE  STUDENT.    You  are  tired? 

MALCHUS.    I  am  sad. 

THE  BAKER.  We  have  rare  sport  in  hand 
will  cheer  you  up! 

[  61  ] 


THE   SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

THE  STUDENT.  We  plan  to  throw  the 
bishop  out. 

THE  BAKER.    You  shall  help  us. 

THE  IDLER.  Mother  of  Christ,  but  I  shall 
laugh  to  see  him  go ! 

MALCHUS.    You  drive  out  your  bishop? 

THE  BAKER.    That  we  shall. 

MALCHUS.  And  when  he  is  gone  what 
will  you  do? 

THE  STUDENT.  We  shall  be  free  and 
rule  ourselves. 

THE  IDLER.  If  we  wish,  we  can  make 
some  one  else  bishop. 

THE  BAKER.  We  can  decide  afterwards 
what  to  do.  The  main  thing  is  to  drive  the 
bishop  out. 

MALCHUS.  You  would  drive  your  bishop 
out? 

THE  STUDENT.    We  would  and  will. 

MALCHUS.     Are  you  Christians? 

THE  BAKER  [disgusted].  He's  only  a 
parasite  of  the  priests. 

THE  IDLER.    We  have  told  him  too  much. 

MALCHUS.    Forgive  me.    You  see  I  am  a 
stranger  who  has  come  from  far.     Are  all 
the  people  here  Christians? 
L  62  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

THE  STUDENT.     Why,  of  course  they  are 
Christians.    Why  shouldn't  they  be? 

MALCHUS.    And  there  are  no  pagans  at 
all? 

THE  STUDENT  [laughing].  Naturally  not. 

MALCHUS.     Why,     then,     we     are     all 
brothers. 

THE  BAKER.     Yes,  if  you  will  join  us 
against  the  bishop. 

MALCHUS.    But  he  is  a  Christian,  too. 

THE  IDLER.    He  is  a  dog. 

THE  BAKER.    God  damn  him  in  Hell! 

MALCHUS.     How  long  have  there  been 
Christians  in  Ephesus  ? 

THE  STUDENT.    Why,  for  centuries. 

MALCHUS.      Were   there   never   pagans 
then? 

THE  STUDENT.     Of  course,  there  were 
pagans  here  as  everywhere  else. 

MALCHUS.    And    they    persecuted    the 
Christians  once? 

THE  STUDENT.    Yes,  of  course. 

MALCHUS.      When    did    they    persecute 
them  last? 

THE  STUDENT.    Why,  hundreds  of  years 
ago. 

[  63  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

MALCHUS.    Who  was  emperor  then? 

THE  STUDENT.  The  worst  persecution 
took  place,  I  believe,  under  Decius. 

MALCHUS.  It  was  then  the  seven  —  so 
I  think  they  call  them  —  fell  asleep. 

THE  STUDENT.    So  they  say. 

MALCHUS.    How  long  ago  was  that? 

THE  STUDENT.  Three  hundred  —  three 
hundred  and  fifty  —  three  hundred  and  sev- 
enty —  three  hundred  and  seventy-two  years 
ago. 

MALCHUS.  Then  the  seven  have  been 
sleeping  for  three  hundred  and  seventy-two 
years. 

THE  STUDENT.    So  they  say. 

MALCHUS.  And  the  Ephesians  for  three 
hundred  and  seventy-two  years  have  been 
Christians  ? 

THE  STUDENT.    For  something  like  that. 

MALCHUS.  And  these  are  Ephesians  that 
I  see  about  me? 

THE  BAKER.  What  would  you  expect 
at  Ephesus? 

MALCHUS.  Men  who  have  been  Chris- 
tians for  three  hundred  and  seventy-two 
years  ? 

[  64  J 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

THE  IDLER.    Assuredly. 

MALCHUS.  And  the  whole  world  is  Chris- 
tian? 

THE  IDLER.  Do  you  come  from  another 
planet  that  you  do  not  know? 

THE  BAKER.  Our  missionaries  have  pen- 
etrated to  the  Orkneys  and  the  Indies.  The 
heathen  who  won't  believe,  will  all  be  burned. 

MALCHUS.    Are  all  Christians  like  you? 

THE  BAKER.  That  villain  of  a  bishop  is 
a  bitch. 

MALCHUS.    Are  there  still  wars? 

THE  IDLER.  You've  heard  the  news  of 
the  great  victory? 

MALCHUS.    What  is  it? 

THE  IDLER.  Why,  every  one  knows. 
All  Italy  is  ours !  After  Africa,  now  Italy. 

MALCHUS.  Were  the  men  there  Chris- 
tians ? 

THE  IDLER.  Why,  of  course.  Our  gen- 
eral cut  to  pieces  and  destroyed  the  Italian 
army,  killed,  they  say,  tens  and  tens  of 
thousands.  We  may  all  expect  a  share  in 
the  plunder. 

MALCHUS.    That,  too? 

THE  IDLER.    The  man  is  mad. 
[  65  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

MALCHUS.     Only  heavy-hearted. 

THE  STUDENT  [sympathetically'}.  You 
have  come  from  far? 

MALCHUS.  I  have  travelled  a  great  dis- 
tance. Now  I  am  going  back. 

THE  STUDENT.  Without  having  accom- 
plished anything? 

MALCHUS.  I  have  learned  —  that  from 
great  crimes  are  born  great  miracles.  [Go- 
ing.] 

THE  BAKER.  You  have  not  paid  me  for 
the  bread. 

MALCHUS  [throws  a  coin  on  the  counter]. 

THE  STUDENT  [drawing  him  aside].  You 
will  not  betray  us  to  the  bishop? 

THE  IDLER  [whispering  in  his  ear].  If 
you  should,  I  shall  kill  you. 

THE  BAKER  [drawing  him  aside].  How 
did  you  come  by  that  coin  you  gave 
me? 

MALCHUS  [hesitating].  It  was  in  my 
wallet. 

THE  BAKER.  I  understand  well  enough 
what  you  are. 

MALCHUS.  You  understand?  You?  — 
My  friend! 

[  66  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BAKER.  Yes,  your  friend  —  on  cer- 
tain conditions. 

MALCHUS.    What  do  you  mean? 

THE  BAKER.    I  shall  be  satisfied  with  half. 

MALCHUS.    Half  what? 

THE  BAKER.    Half  the  swag. 

MALCHUS  [understanding].    Ah! 

THE  BAKER.  It's  no  use  to  play  the 
innocent  with  me. 

MALCHUS  [facing  him].  What  do  you 
mean? 

THE  BAKER.  I  mean  you  have  found  a 
treasure  and  I  want  half. 

MALCHUS.    I  have  found  no  treasure. 

THE  BAKER.  So  much  the  worse,  then. 
You  have  stolen  it. 

MALCHUS.    I  have  stolen  nothing. 

THE  BAKER.  No,  of  course  you  have  not. 
But  for  a  half  I  shall  not  only  say  nothing, 
I  shall  help  you  get  rid  of  it. 

MALCHUS.  I  have  nothing  to  get  rid  of. 
I  have  lost  everything,  even  my  dream. 

THE  BAKER  [holding  out  the  coin]. 
There  will  be  plenty  more  of  the  same  kind 
where  this  came  from. 

MALCHUS  [showing  him  his  wallet].  You 
[  67  ] 


THE    SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

see  it  is  nearly  empty.     Hardly  anything 
left. 

THE  BAKER.  My  friend,  you  can't  pass 
off  these  old  coins. 

MALCHUS.    It  is  gold. 

THE  BAKER.  And  four  hundred  years 
old.  Any  fool  would  know  you  had  not 
come  by  it  honestly. 

MALCHUS.  So  it  is  four  hundred  years 
old! 

THE  BAKER.  But  for  half  I  shall  not 
breathe  a  word.  And  I  shall  help  you 
pass  it  off.  We  shall  melt  it  down  in  my 
ovens. 

MALCHUS.    I  have  no  gold. 

THE  BAKER.  Come,  I  will  not  be  unrea- 
sonable. I  will  do  it  for  a  third. 

MALCHUS.    I  have  nothing  to  give  you. 

THE  BAKER  [threatening].  We'll  see 
what  the  bishop  says  to  that. 

MALCHUS.    The  bishop? 

THE  BAKER.  Whoever  denounces  a  thief 
gets  a  quarter  of  the  swag. 

MALCHUS.    Yes,  take  me  to  your  bishop! 

THE  BAKER.    You  think  I  dare  not? 

MALCHUS.    I  demand  to  see  the  bishop. 
[  68  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BAKER.  You  might  go  scot-free  if 
you  would  give  me  just  one  little  third. 

MALCHUS  [raising  his  voice~\.  Where  is 
your  bishop? 

THE  BAKER  [outshouting  him}.  This 
man  is  a  thief!  Bind  him  and  take  him  to 
the  bishop. 

THE  STUDENT  [amid  general  uproar  and 
excitement] .  Thief  ? 

THE  BAKER  [holding  up  coin].  See  the 
stolen  gold  he  tried  to  pass  on  me. 

THE  IDLER.    Thief! 

THE  STUDENT  [drawing  the  Baker  aside, 
while  the  crowd  presses  about  Malchus]. 
This  is  imprudent.  The  man  knows  too 
much. 

THE  BAKER.    It 's  worth  the  risk. 

THE  STUDENT.    If  he  accuses  us? 

THE  BAKER.    We  deny,  of  course. 

THE  STUDENT.    No,  we  strike ! 

THE  BAKER.     Strike,  to-day? 

THE  STUDENT.  To-day,  or  never.  Which- 
ever way  the  bishop  decides,  we  take  the 
other  side. 

THE  BAKER.  If  it  should  happen  that 
I  get  the  gold? 

[  69  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

THE  STUDENT.  We  must  strike  the  same. 
This  man  will  surely  tell  the  bishop.  You 
were  a  fool  to  interfere  with  him. 

THE  BAKER.  The  bishop  will  never  be- 
lieve a  man  like  that. 

THE  STUDENT.  We  shall  accuse  the 
bishop  of  heresy. 

THE  BAKER.    Of  heresy? 

THE  STUDENT.  I  have  heard  it  whis- 
pered he  does  not  believe  in  immortality. 

THE  BAKER.    Well? 

THE  STUDENT.  Be  prepared  for  any- 
thing. 


C  70  ] 


Ill 

[The  Bishop's  Palace.  The  Bishop  and 
Julian.] 

THE  BISHOP.  No,  my  Julian,  you  are 
wrong.  It 's  not  what,  but  that  one  believes. 

JULIAN.    Above  all,  the  truth! 

THE  BISHOP.    You  are  very  young. 

JULIAN.    Perhaps. 

THE  BISHOP.  When  I  was  young,  I 
thought  as  you  do.  I  too  loved  the  truth. 

JULIAN.    Well? 

THE  BISHOP.    Now  I  have  changed. 

JULIAN.    I  shall  never  change. 

THE  BISHOP.  One  day  you  will  learn, 
as  I  have,  that  truth  causes  evil  in  the 
world. 

JULIAN.    Would  you  have  lies,  hypocrisy  ? 

THE  BISHOP.  My  Julian!  How  little 
you  understand. 

JULIAN.    Yet  that  little  is  solid  ground. 

THE  BISHOP.  It  is  the  truth  which  breeds 
hypocrisy  and  lies. 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

JULIAN.    The  truth? 

THE  BISHOP.     The  unattainable,  phan- 
tom, wicked  truth. 

JULIAN.    There  I  can  not,  will  not,  follow 
you. 

THE  BISHOP.    One  day  you  will  have  to. 

JULIAN.     You  would  leave  your  people 
—  in  this  superstition? 

THE  BISHOP.    Since  they  are  better  and 
happier  for  it. 

JULIAN.     And  you  will  let  them  think 
you  believe  it,  when  you  don't  ? 

THE  BISHOP.    I  believe  —  in  belief. 

JULIAN.    But  you  and  I  —  know. 

THE  BISHOP.    Well,  then,  we  know  there 
is  no  immortality. 

JULIAN.     So  we  have  often  agreed. 

THE  BISHOP.    Suppose  we  are  right. 

JULIAN.    We  are  right. 

THE  BISHOP.    Suppose  we  are  right. 

JULIAN.      Surely,  we   should   share  the 
truth  with  others  —  rid  our  creed  of  error. 

THE  BISHOP.     You  and  I,  who  see  this 
truth  —  are  we  on  that  account  —  better? 

JULIAN.    We  are  one  step  —  a  slight  step, 
still  a  step  —  higher. 

[  72  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

THE  BISHOP.     Or,  perhaps,  —  lower? 

JULIAN.  Higher.  It  is  because  our 
knowledge  of  facts  is  only  partial,  we  are 
men,  not  gods. 

THE  BISHOP.  On  the  contrary,  ever  since 
the  days  of  Eden,  it  is  the  thirst  for  knowl- 
edge that  has  barred  our  race  from  Paradise. 

JULIAN.    The  fool's  Paradise. 

THE  BISHOP.  There  is  no  other.  The 
only  Paradise  is  that  of  unreality. 

JULIAN.    If  it  is  unreal,  it  is  nothing. 

THE  BISHOP.  Unreality  is  the  only  real 
thing  in  the  world.  These  people  who  be- 
lieve in  an  immortality  —  which,  you  and  I 
know,  does  not  exist  — 

JULIAN.    Well? 

THE  BISHOP.  Through  fear  of  an  imag- 
inary punishment,  or  in  pursuit  of  an  imag- 
inary reward,  abstain  from  evil,  even  do 
good. 

JULIAN.  It  is  a  knave's  part  to  be  virtu- 
ous in  fear  of  a  whipping  or  in  hope  of  a 
sweetmeat. 

THE  BISHOP.  Men,  my  Julian,  are  moral 
cowards,  and  always  will  be.  This  immor- 
tality— 

[  73  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

JULIAN.    Go  on. 

THE  BISHOP.  By  belief  in  Heaven,  who 
knows  how  many  heartaches  have  been  as- 
suaged, how  many  have  found  courage  to 
face  —  even  death.  Would  you  deprive  hu- 
manity of  so  much  solace — for  a  cold,  bar- 
ren truth? 

JULIAN.  And  who  knows  how  many, 
through  fear  of  Hell,  have  been  prevented 
from  finding  —  peace. 

THE  BISHOP.    To  live,  perhaps,  happily. 

JULIAN.  Even  if  you  are  right,  truth 
would  be  worth  all  this  and  more. 

THE  BISHOP.  The  truth  is  full  of 
gloom. 

JULIAN.    It  was  enjoined  by  Christ. 

THE  BISHOP.  Christ  never  wished  men 
to  be  unhappy.  He  preached  no  gospel  of 
gloom. 

JULIAN.  He  surely  wished  men  to  be 
sincere. 

THE  BISHOP.  He  wished  men  to  be,  first 
of  all  —  joyous. 

JULIAN.    Joyous  ? 

THE  BISHOP.  Let  the  Christian  observe 
his  fasts,  but  enjoy  his  feasts.  Let  him  eat 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

well-cooked  food  and  drink  choice  vintage 
wines. 

JULIAN.    That  way  lies  disintegration. 

THE  BISHOP.  And  the  church  should  be 
beautiful  with  candles  and  incense  and 
music  and  mosaics  and  tapestries  and  over- 
head great  arches. 

JULIAN.  Hope  lies  rather  in  simplicity 
and  truth. 

THE  BISHOP.  Simplicity  and  truth  spell 
asceticism;  and  it  is  the  gloom  of  asceticism 
that  always  has  been,  and  always  will  be, 
the  most  insidious  enemy  of  religion. 

JULIAN.  I  hear  an  uproar  on  the  street 
below. 

THE  BISHOP  [looking  out].  My  friend 
the  Baker  is  bringing  to  a  head  his  little 
conspiracy. 

THE  BISHOP'S  MAN  [coming  in]. 
There's  one  below  asks  justice. 

THE  BISHOP.  Let  them  come  [the 
Bishop's  Man  goes  out.  —  To  Julian]  The 
guards  are  ready  in  the  inner  room? 

JULIAN.    You  have  only  to  call. 

THE  BISHOP.  Your  sword  is  where  you 
can  reach  it  ? 

[  75  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

JULIAN.    Under  my  cassock. 

THE  BISHOP.  Have  it  loose  in  the  scab- 
bard, but  do  not  let  it  show.  And  have 
plenty  of  our  people,  armed,  mingle  with 
the  crowd,  and  especially  stand  near  me. 
[Julian  goes  out.  The  crowd  comes  in, 
led  by  the  Baker  and  the  Student.  Mal- 
chus  is  guarded  by  several.  The  Bishop  as- 
cends his  throne.] 

THE  IDLER.    He's  guilty! 

SECOND  IDLER.    I  say  he 's  innocent. 

THE  STUDENT.    He's  clearly  a  thief. 

THE  IDLER.    Nothing  of  the  kind. 

THE  STUDENT.    He  should  be  acquitted. 

SECOND  IDLER.    Throw  him  in  prison! 

THE  BAKER.  Justice,  my  lord  bishop, 
against  this  thief! 

THE  BISHOP  [to  the  Baker] .  Has  he 
injured  you? 

THE  BAKER.  I  caught  him  red-handed 
in  the  act  —  trying  to  pass  off  his  stolen 
gold. 

THE  BISHOP.  So  you  have  come  to  me 
to  claim  your  thirty  pieces? 

THE   BAKER.      I    claim   my   quarter — 
[struck]  you  know  how  much  it  is? 
[  76  ] 


THE    SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BISHOP  [smiles] . 

THE  IDLER.  They  say  Alexander  of 
Tralles  knows  all  about  this  man. 

THE  BISHOP.    Let  him  be  summoned. 

THE  BISHOP'S  MAN  [goes  out]. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  the  Baker].  What  is 
your  evidence? 

THE  BAKER  [triumphantly] .  This  [holds 
out  coin]. 

THE  BISHOP.    An  ancient  coin. 

THE  BAKER.  An  ancient  coin  of  Ephe- 
sus. 

THE  BISHOP.  Yes,  it  is  of  Ephesus,  and 
very  old. 

THE  BAKER.  This  man  who  comes  from 
far — 

THE  BISHOP.    Does  he  come  from  far? 

THE  BAKER.    You  can  see  his  clothes. 

THE  BISHOP.     They  are  extraordinary. 

THE  STUDENT.  And  his  speech,  —  no  one 
in  Ephesus  speaks  as  well  as  he. 

THE  BAKER.  And  he  openly  said  he 
had  arrived  from  far  away.  That  they  all 
heard. 

THE  STUDENT.    He  said  that  distinctly. 

THE  IDLER.    So  he  did. 
[  77  ] 


THE    SEVEN  WHO    SLEPT 

SEVERAL.    We  all  heard  that. 

THE  BAKER.  This  man  who  has  just  ar- 
rived from  far  away,  gives  me  in  payment 
for  bread  an  ancient  Ephesian  coin. 

THE  BISHOP.     Well? 

THE  BAKER.  Only  two  things  are  pos- 
sible. Either  he  stole  it,  or  he  found  a 
treasure. 

THE  BISHOP.    So? 

THE  BAKER.  And  if  he  found  it,  he  stole 
it  the  same,  since  it  was  not  his. 

THE  BISHOP.    Is  this  all  your  evidence? 

THE  BAKER.    Is  it  not  enough? 

THE  BISHOP  \_smiles~\. 

THE  BAKER.    I  say  he 's  guilty. 

THE  BISHOP  [suddenly  to  the  Student}. 
Beautiful  boy,  do  you  think  I  should  pun- 
ish those  who  break  the  law? 

THE  STUDENT.    If  the  law  is  just. 

THE  BISHOP.  How  am  I  to  know 
whether  the  law  be  just? 

THE  STUDENT.  I  suppose  everyone 
knows  what  is  right. 

THE  BISHOP.  I  suppose  no  one  knows 
what  is  right. 

THE  STUDENT  [at  a  loss]. 
[  78] 


THE   SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BISHOP  [kindly].  You  believe  in 
ideals? 

THE  STUDENT.    Deeply. 

THE  BISHOP.  You  are  what  one  might 
call  —  an  idealist? 

THE  STUDENT.    I  trust  so. 

THE  BISHOP.  Then  let  an  older  man 
whisper  a  warning  in  your  ear.  Unmixed 
idealism  is  as  pernicious  as  unmixed  materi- 
alism. Salvation  lies  in  the  middle  way. 

THE  STUDENT.  Compromise  is  damna- 
tion! 

THE  BISHOP.  For  example,  do  you  think 
I  or  he  [pointing  to  the  Baker]  would  make 
a  better  bishop? 

THE  STUDENT  [after  a  moment  of  hesi- 
tation] .  You ! 

THE  BISHOP  [smiles]. 

THE  STUDENT  [is  silent]. 

THE  BISHOP.  Beautiful  boy,  I  myself 
am  not  without  ideals. 

THE  STUDENT  [is  silent]. 

THE  BISHOP.  And  remember  this.  The 
very  fact  that  I  have  become  bishop  indi- 
cates, perhaps,  some  fitness. 

THE  STUDENT.    You  play  well. 
[  79  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BISHOP.  Precisely.  One  ideal  that 
will  work,  is  worth  two  that  will  not.  Mine 
work. 

THE  STUDENT  [is  silent}. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  the  Student}.  I  often 
wonder  which  is  worse,  the  many  or  the  few. 

THE  STUDENT  [is  silent}. 

THE  BISHOP  [smiles}. 

THE  BISHOP.  What  would  Socrates  be 
worth,  in  a  nation  of  savages  ? 

THE  STUDENT.  He  would  not  be  a  popu- 
lar ruler. 

THE  BISHOP.    He  would  be  a  bad  ruler. 

THE   STUDENT.     Perhaps. 

THE  BISHOP.  He  would  rule  the  sav- 
ages as  badly  as  a  savage  would  rule  a  nation 
—  like  ours. 

THE  STUDENT.  Socrates  must  not  be  put 
under  a  savage. 

THE  BISHOP.  It  is  you,  not  I,  that 
wish  it. 

THE  STUDENT.    I  only  wish — the  right. 

THE  BISHOP.  Between  me  and  him 
[pointing  to  the  Baker},  the  right  is  proved 
by  [pointing  to  his  robes}  this. 

THE  STUDENT.     And  justice? 
[  80  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BISHOP.  Beautiful  boy,  justice  is 
a  compromise  between  conflicting  forces. 

THE  STUDENT.    Whatever  is,  is  wrong. 

THE  BISHOP.  Except  what  will  be.  I 
who  shall  be,  am  right. 

THE  STUDENT  [turning  it  over].  What- 
ever is,  not  quite  so  long  as  it  is,  is  right. 

THE  BISHOP.    Whatever  is,  was  right. 

THE  STUDENT.  Is  it  the  past  that  is 
wrong,  or  the  future? 

THE  BISHOP.  The  present!  —  Beauti- 
ful boy,  I  see  that  you  and  I  shall  yet  be 
friends. 

THE  STUDENT  [is  silent] . 

THE  BISHOP.  You  have  not  answered 
my  question.  Shall  I  punish  those  who 
break  the  law? 

THE  STUDENT  {bewildered,  at  random]. 
Yes. 

THE  BISHOP.  What  punishment  would 
you  suggest  for  those  who  have  conspired 
against  the  right? 

THE  STUDENT.    Against  the  right? 

THE  BISHOP.  Against  me,  who  since  I 
shall  be,  am  the  right.  [At  a  signal  from 
the  Bishop  the  armed  guard  appears  in  the 
[  81  ] 


THE    SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

doorway.  People  of  the  Bishop  quietly  re- 
move the  swords  of  the  Student,  the  Baker, 
the  Idler  and  others.] 

THE  BISHOP  [smiles]. 

THE  BAKER  [under  his  breath] .  Hounds 
of  Hell! 

THE  BISHOP  [to  Malchus].  Are  you  also 
my  enemy? 

MALCHTJS.    I  am  no  man's  enemy. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  Alexander  of  Tralles, 
who  has  just  come  in] .  Do  you  know  good 
or  evil  of  this  man? 

ALEXANDER.    No  evil.    He  has  been  mad. 

THE  BISHOP  [surprised].    Mad? 

ALEXANDER  [complacently] .  He  was,  but 
I  cured  him. 

THE  BISHOP.  How  did  he  come  by  this 
gold? 

MALCHUS  [tries  to  speak]. 

ALEXANDER  [cutting  him  off].  He  does 
not  know.  He  can  remember  nothing. 

MALCHUS  [tries  to  speak]. 

ALEXANDER  [in  an  authoritative  manner] . 
Nothing! 

THE  BISHOP.  And  he  is  now  entirely 
cured  ? 

[  82  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

ALEXANDER.    Almost. 

THE  BISHOP.  Clever  physician!  He 
keeps  the  gold? 

ALEXANDER.  That  should  be  given  to 
Mother  Church. 

THE  BAKER  [between  his  teeth'].  An- 
other chapel ! 

THE  BISHOP  [smiles']. 

ALEXANDER.  Then  his  cure  will  be  com- 
plete. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  Malchus].  Have  you 
the  gold? 

MALCHUS  [showing  his  wallet'].  You  see, 
my  purse  is  nearly  empty. 

ALEXANDER.  What  have  you  done  with 
it? 

MALCHUS  [is  silent}. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  Alexander].  Perhaps 
these  may  be  deeper  waters  than  you 
imagine.  How  do  you  know  he  was 
mad? 

ALEXANDER.    The  symptoms  were  clear. 

THE  BISHOP.    Name  them. 

ALEXANDER.     He    thought    he    was    an 
Ephesian,  although  his  speech  and  his  dress 
clearly  showed  he  was  a  foreigner. 
[  83  ] 


THE    SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BAKER  [plucking  up  courage].    He 
told  us  he  had  just  come  from  far. 

ALEXANDER.    You  see  I  cured  him  of  his 
delusion. 

JULIAN.    I  see  that  he  lied. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  Alexander].    Proceed. 

ALEXANDER.     Then  he  said  he  had  seen 
the  seven  who  sleep. 

THE   BISHOP    [crossing   himself].     The 
seven  who  sleep ! 

THE  BISHOP'S  MAN.    Last  night  I  saw  a 
red  glow  on  the  mountain  of  Sekia. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  Malchus].    Was  yours 
the  guilty  soul? 

MALCHUS.     I  thought  so  once,  but  now 
I  have  learned  otherwise. 

THE  BISHOP.    How  so? 

MALCHUS.    Let  me  first  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion, you  who  are  God's  emissary. 

THE  BISHOP  [struck  by  something  in  his 
manner] .    Well  ? 

MALCHUS.     Is  it  true  that  from  great 
crimes,  great  miracles  are  born? 

THE  BISHOP  [pondering  the  phrase].    It 
is  you  who  tell  me. 

MALCHUS.    Then  why  am  I  sent? 
[  84  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

THE  BISHOP.  I  do  not  understand 
you. 

MALCHUS.    I  am  the  miracle. 

THE  BISHOP.     The  miracle? 

MALCHUS.  I  am  one  of  the  seven  who 
slept  [profound  silence}. 

MALCHUS.  I  am  one  of  the  seven  who 
slept. 

THE  BISHOP.  Who  are  these  seven  who 
sleep  ? 

MALCHUS.  They  did  sleep,  but  now  they 
have  awakened. 

THE  BISHOP.    Why  did  they  sleep? 

MALCHUS.  From  great  crimes,  great  mir- 
acles are  born. 

THE  BISHOP.  And  what  is  born  from 
miracles  ? 

MALCHUS  [softly].  That  is  what  I  do 
not  know.  Perhaps  nothing. 

THE  BISHOP.    Nothing? 

MALCHUS.    But  dreams. 

THE  BISHOP.    Good  dreams? 

MALCHUS.    Who  knows! 

THE  BISHOP.  Who  are  the  seven  who 
slept? 

MALCHUS.  Three  hundred  and  seventy- 
[  85  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

two  years  ago —  [To  the  Student.]    It  was 
so  you  said,  was  it  not? 

THE  STUDENT.    I? 

MALCHUS.  That  they  were  persecuting 
the  Christians  at  Ephesus. 

THE  STUDENT.    That  is  true. 

MALCHUS.  It  was  in  the  time  of  the  em- 
peror Decius. 

THE  STUDENT.    He  did  live  then. 

MALCHUS  [to  the  Baker].  What  is  the 
name  stamped  on  that  coin  you  hold? 

THE  BAKER.    Why,  Decius. 

THE  IDLER.    The  very  same! 

THE  BISHOP.    Well? 

MALCHUS.  One  evening  I  and  six  other 
Christians,  fearing  arrest,  fled  to  the  moun- 
tain. 

THE  BISHOP.    The  mountain  of  Sekia? 

MALCHUS.  We  fled.  It  was  in  that  we 
sinned. 

JULIAN.    Saints  do  not  sin. 

THE  IDLER  [to  the  Baker~\.  Yet  you  ac- 
cused this  saint  of  theft! 

THE  BAKER.    He  is  a  thief,  no  saint. 

THE  IDLER.  A  saint  may  be  known  by 
his  enemies. 

[  86  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BISHOP  [smiles']. 

THE  SECOND  IDLER.  There  never  was  a 
saint  who  was  not  persecuted. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  Malchus].    Well? 

MALCHUS.    We  spent  the  night  in  a  cave. 

THE  IDLER.  Ah,  the  cave  on  the  moun- 
tain of  Sekia. 

MALCHUS.  And  since  there  was  no  place 
to  lie  down,  we  slept  seated. 

THE  BISHOP.    Seated? 

MALCHUS.  Yes,  seated  on  great  stones. 
In  the  morning,  this  morning,  we  awoke. 

THE  STUDENT.  After  three  hundred  and 
seventy-two  years  ? 

MALCHUS.  But  we  did  not  know  it.  The 
others  do  not  know  it  yet.  We  thought  we 
had  slept  only  a  single  night. 

THE  STUDENT.  But  your  beards  had 
grown  long? 

MALCHUS.  Yes,  our  beards  and  our  hair 
had  grown  very  long.  But  we  did  not  spe- 
cially notice  it. 

THE  BISHOP.    Well? 

MALCHUS.    We  were  very  hungry,  since 
we  had  nothing  to  eat.    And  I  was  chosen 
to  go  to  the  city  to  buy  bread. 
[  87  ] 


THE    SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

ALEXANDER  OF  TRALLES.  This  man  is 
mad. 

THE  BISHOP.    All  saints  are  mad. 

MALCHUS.  And  I  found  everything  so 
strangely  changed. 

THE  IDLER.  It  would  be  changed  after 
three  hundred  and  seventy-two  years! 

MALCHUS.  At  first  I  hardly  noticed,  I 
was  so  terrified  lest  I  should  be  recognized 
and  arrested. 

JULIAN.    A  saint  was  afraid? 

THE  STUDENT.  Therefore  I  believe  in 
him! 

MALCHUS.  Then  I  thought  I  had  lost 
my  reason.  He  [pointing  to  Alexander  of 
Tralles~\  set  me  right.  He  told  me  of  the 
seven  who  slept. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  Alexander  of  Tralles}. 
Is  it  so? 

ALEXANDER  OF  TRALLES.  I  did  tell  him 
the  legend. 

MALCHUS.  Then  when  I  offered  a  coin 
to  this  man  [pointing  to  the  Baker]  he  ac- 
cused me  of  theft. 

THE  IDLER.  The  ruffian,  to  maltreat  a 
saint! 

[  88  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

THE  BISHOP  [smiles], 

THE  IDLER.  A  miracle!  We  have  seen 
a  miracle! 

THE  STUDENT.    It  all  seems  clear. 

MALCHUS.    No,  to  me  it  is  not  clear. 

THE  BISHOP.    Not  clear? 

MALCHUS.  Why  did  we  sleep?  and  why 
did  we  wake? 

ALEXANDER  OF  TRALLES.  In  this  world 
is  there  a  why? 

THE  BISHOP.  There  is,  it  seems,  no  why 
but  is. 

THE  STUDENT  [to  Malchus}.  Perhaps 
I,  a  sinner,  can  tell  you,  a  saint. 

MALCHUS.  A  saint,  it  appears,  is  the 
greatest  of  sinners. 

THE  STUDENT.  I  shall  tell  you,  if  you 
will  first  answer  for  me  one  question. 

MALCHUS.    Well? 

THE  STUDENT.  Why  do  we,  the  rest  of 
us,  live? 

MALCHUS.    I  can  not  tell. 

THE  BISHOP.    Is  there  any  one  can  tell? 

THE  STUDENT.  This  purposefulness  in 
life,  what  we  are  striving  and  living  for  — 
what  is  it? 

[  89  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO    SLEPT 

ALEXANDER  or  TRALLES.  Many  differ- 
ent things. 

THE  STUDENT.  That  is  —  nothing.  We 
are  all  travelling,  moving  along  some  road, 
is  it  not  true? 

ALEXANDER  OF  TRALLES.    Evidently. 

THE  STUDENT.  Where  does  that  road 
lead? 

MALCHUS.    I  can  not  answer  your  riddle. 

THE  STUDENT.    Nor  I  yours. 

MALCHUS.    Yet  this  I  know,  I  am  sent. 

THE  STUDENT.    You  slept  —  and  we  live ! 

MALCHUS  [ruminating'].  From  great 
crimes,  great  miracles  are  born. 

THE  BISHOP.    Well? 

MALCHUS.    Why  am  I  sent? 

JULIAN.    This  man  is  preposterous! 

MALCHUS  [looking  at  Julian].  My  mis- 
sion is  to  souls  in  danger. 

JULIAN.    Then  look  to  your  own. 

MALCHUS  [to  the  Bishop}.  Why  am  I 
sent  to  you? 

THE  BISHOP  [startled].    To  me? 

MALCHUS.  All  here  have  seen  one  of  the 
seven  who  slept!  [General  consternation.] 

THE  BISHOP.    Heaven  defend  us ! 
[  90  ] 


THE   SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

MALCHUS  [to  the  Bishop].  Why  am  I 
sent  to  you? 

THE  BISHOP  [looking  at  Julian].  Per- 
haps to  save  two  souls. 

JULIAN.    Please  do  not  include  mine. 

MALCHUS  [to  Alexander'].  Why  am  I 
sent  to  you? 

ALEXANDER  [covering  his  face  with  his 
hands].  I  understand. 

MALCHUS  [to  the  Student].  Why  am  I 
sent  to  you? 

THE  STUDENT.  I  ask  forgiveness  from 
Heaven  and  [pointing  to  the  Bishop]  from 
him. 

THE  BISHOP  [smiles], 

JULIAN.    This  is  alia  trick! 

THE  BISHOP  [to  Malchus] .    Your  proofs  ? 

MALCHUS.  I  shall  lead  you  to  the 
cave. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  the  Baker].  That  coin 
you  hold  may  be  a  precious  relic. 

THE  BAKER  [to  his  apprentice].  Go  and 
save  the  bread  he  left  in  my  shop.  Lock  it  in 
the  strong  box. 

THE  IDLER.  Pilgrims  will  come  to  Ephe- 
sus  from  all  over  the  world. 

[  91  ] 


THE   SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

SECOND  IDLER.  This  miracle  will  be  a 
great  source  of  wealth  to  our  city. 

THE  BAKER.  They  must  build  a  chapel 
in  my  shop,  and  I  shall  open  an  hospice  in 
the  house  above. 


IV 

[A  cave  in  the  mountain  of  SeJda.    Six  of 
the  seven  who  slept  seated  on  stones. 
The  first  stone  is  vacant.    On  the  sec- 
ond stone,  which  is  the  highest,  is  seated 
Maximian,  and  Marcian  on  a  stone  cor- 
responding to  the  vacant  one.    Below, 
grouped  by  themselves,  Denis,  John, 
Serapion  and  Constantine.~\ 
CONSTANTINE.    He  has  been  gone  a  long 
while. 

JOHN.    I  am  hungry. 
DENIS.    He  must  come  soon. 
CONSTANTINE.     Should  they  have  taken 
him? 

SERAPION.    If  we  die,  we  die. 
MARCIAN.    If  we  die,  we  live. 
CONSTANTINE.     Without  death,  there  is 
no  life. 

MARCIAN.    By  our  blood,  humanity  shall 
be  redeemed. 

DENIS.     No  more  discord,  no  more  war, 
no  more  poverty. 

[  93  ] 


THE   SEVEN  WHO   SLEPT 

SERAPION.    Whatever  happens,  we  shall 
never  recant. 

MAXIMIAN.    It  were  best,  if  possible,  to 
sleep  a  little  longer. 

CONSTANTINE.    We  shall  have  need  of  all 
our  strength. 

MARCIAN.    I  feel  a  strange  drowsiness. 

MAXIMIAN.    Let  us  sleep  a  little  longer. 
[The  six,  one  by  one,  fall  asleep.    In  the 
distance  is  heard  chanting. ,] 

CHORUS   OF    MEN'S   VOICES    [without], 
Miserere  met, 
Domine, 

Quoniam  infirmus  sum. 
Sana  me, 
Domine, 

Quoniam  ossa  mea 
Conturbata  sunt. 
Et  anima  mea 
Valde 

Turbata  est. 
Animam  meam, 
Domine, 

Convertere  et  eripe 
Fac  me  salvum 
Propter  misericordiam. 
[  94  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

[Malchus  leads  in  the  Bishop,  clothed  in  full 
ecclesiastical  vestments,  with  mitre, 
cope,  and  crosier.  Acolytes  swinging 
censers  and  carrying  candles,  proces- 
sional banners  and  crosses.  Choristers 
and  priests;  behind,  the  populace, 
among  whom  may  be  distinguished  Al- 
exander of  Tralles,  the  Student,  the 
Baker  and  the  Idler.  Malchus  takes 
his  seat  on  the  vacant  stone,  then  he, 
too,  sleeps.  The  Baker  on  catching 
sight  of  the  seven  falls  on  his  knees 
as  do  some  of  the  people.  The  others, 
including  the  Bishop,  hesitate, ,] 
THE  BISHOP  [to  Julian].  He  said,  I 
think,  that  from  great  crimes,  great  miracles 
are  born. 

JULIAN  [to  the  Bishop'].     This  is  all  a 
trick. 

THE  BISHOP  [to  Julian].    Fool! 
JULIAN  [to  the  Bishop~\.    To-night? 
THE  BISHOP  [to  Julian].    No! 
JULIAN  [steals  away]. 
THE  BISHOP  [falls  on  his  knees.     The 
ecclesiastics,  then  the  people,  one  by  one,  do 
the  same]. 

[  95  ] 


THE    SEVEN   WHO   SLEPT 

CHORUS  OF  BOYSJ  VOICES.    Kyrie  eleison, 

Christe  eleison, 
Kyrie  eleison! 

CHORUS  OF  MENJS  VOICES.     Gloria  Patri 

Et  Filio 
Et     Spiritui 

Sancto. 
Sic  erat 
In  principio 
Et  nunc 
Et  semper 
Et  in  saecula 
Saeculorum. 

CHORUS  OF  BOYS'  VOICES.  Christe  eleison! 
CHORUS  OF  MEN'S  VOICES.     In  saecula 
saeculorum! 

THE  BISHOP  [glancing  at  the  kneeling 
populace,  smiles}. 


[  96  ] 


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